


Parallel Lines

by AbsoluteNegation



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cops, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: 7thnight_smut, Complete, Light Bondage, Look They Finally Made It To India!, M/M, Mentions of Child Trafficking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsoluteNegation/pseuds/AbsoluteNegation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A massacre in a waterfront warehouse provides a shot in the arm to one of Stephen Gonsalves' pet cold cases, and sends him and rookie cop Guhar Irani off on a new tangent entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kirathaune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirathaune/gifts).



The fire had taken a long time to die down, flames reflected on the water and adding a kind of rosy edge to the light of the half-moon that played on the waves and windows of the buildings on the  waterfront.  It was interesting, watching crisis from a nice, detached distance as the flames fought with the sprays that he couldn’t see, but didn’t need to.  He’d been there enough times to be content to be here, instead, at the end of the city - or one of them, anyway, Mumbai being what it was - with the breeze and a bottle of whiskey and eyes unblinded, hair unsinged and lungs filled only with the smoke of his choice.  

The jubilant light of Marine Drive stretched out behind him, every bit as spectacular as the postcards suggested, but Gaish had long ago decided that he preferred the ugly little lights of Macchimaar Nagar to the pretty lie at his back.  Real life happened to the people on the hills the same as the fishermen and their families, he knew that.  It just didn’t happen everyday.  

He’d been here for a few hours now, watching from the first few tongues of flame to the insistent billowing smoke that still rose, seemingly from the sea itself, into the sky.  He didn’t envy the early commuters at Churchgate, that was for fucking sure.  The air was going to be even thicker than usual with that smoke, even after the three or four hours between now and then.  He’d better take the west coastal roads home, but the smoke should be thinned out to nothing special by the time it hit Nagpada itself.  Still, Gaish figured to give it a little while before he got moving on that.  He still had half a bottle left.

Slowly but surely the flashing lights were changing as the firemen made way for the cops and the ambulances, some trailing out, more trailing in, and flashes of colour skipped almost merrily along the waves.  Still, the fire was out, and even his neck had only so much rubber.  It wasn’t anything to do with him or his department, he wasn’t ever going to know more than the papers could tell, so the poor fuckers who had jurisdiction over that could keep it.  The moon on the water was much less exciting, but it was what he’d come out here for, and he wasn’t about to go home without it.

He wasn’t sure, later, how much time passed between when things mostly stopped moving across the water and something started moving down on the rocks.  Well, started and then stopped again pretty quick, but it was enough.  It took him a bit to get the image of the moon out of his vision, even though it wasn’t full or even that bright.  Squinting into the darkness, Gaish finally managed to make out a darker shape among the rocks, weirdly rounded, and it was a good thing he spent so many nights here, or he might not ever have recognised the body slumped over and being licked at by the water.  He watched for a little bit, because the body had moved before and it might move again, and he had no intention of babysitting a drunk. _He_  was drunk, after all, and no one ever babysat him.  Well, okay, Gonsalves had busted him driving his bike on Marine that one time.  And yeah, maybe he’d picked Gaish up a time or two after that, but the abuse that came with it didn’t feel like any kind of care, so he figured that counted for maybe half a time at a shot.

So he waited and watched and drank a little more, but not much because the fact that the drunk wasn’t going to move again was getting to be a fucking certainty.  Fuck.  Fine.

Gaish stowed the bottle away in the inside pocket of his jacket and started picking out the most likely way to get the dumb bastard back up over the sea wall before he fucking drowned.  There was a place fairly close, where the rocks came up high enough that he could probably maneuver even a dead-weight up without too much difficulty, but he wasn’t about to go wasting time and energy getting down in the first place, so he jumped.  It was a fair little distance, but Gaish had done it before, and he’d been drinking slowly enough that it wasn’t all that dangerous.  A moment to clear his head, and he was scrambling his way over sharp, slippery rocks and grumbling aspersions on the life and character of the dumb bastard and his entire ancestry.

It took him a little while to reach the fucker in question, during which time the tide rose by several inches, and the grumbling got louder and ever more profanity-ridden.  Drink-addled fuckwits drowned out here pretty regular, apparently unable to pair up alcohol with the concept of twelve-hour cycles or the knowledge that tides come in fast, and this wasn’t the first time Gaish had dragged someone out of the hungry mouth of the ocean.  When he was within reach, he nudged the body.  

“Hey.  You dead, or what?”  No response.  He nudged again.  “You want to be dead?  Hey.”  Nothing.  Right.

Heaving a sigh, Gaish climbed up a little higher, testing his footing before he reached up to turn the dumb bastard over.  Well _fuck_.  It was just a kid, oddly pale, even waxy in the moonlight, and the strong, familiar smell of blood rose above the scent of the water.  Shit, the kid wasn’t drunk, after all.  Or at least not _just_  drunk.  He managed to get a bit closer and reached over to feel what he couldn’t see, not with the dark clothing and the half-light of the moon.  It didn’t help much, since the kid was soaked from the spray of the water and winding up face down on a big, wet rock, but when he reached the kid’s side, it got him a soft kind of whimper.  Nothing else, the face just as unconscious as it had been, the body just as limp as before, but that sound and that smell meant something bad, and Gaish had no choice but to take a chance on making bad worse.  Or even worst.  

If he’d been asked later exactly how he managed to get the kid off the rocks without killing him, Gaish wouldn’t have been able to answer, his thoughts narrowed only to tug and push and lift, the memory of his feet sliding on treacherous ground and half-formed prayers that he wouldn’t fuck this up and send them both skidding into the maw of the water.  It was a bad idea, but he had no option but to sling the kid over his shoulder so he could use one arm for balance and to climb, and he somehow managed to get them to the place on the wall that he’d picked out earlier.  It might kill the kid, Gaish reasoned, but _might_  was a far cry from the certain death the rocks and the tide had offered.

Eventually, Gaish scrambled over the sea wall with the boy still miraculously on his shoulder and, danger momentarily averted, the grumbling started up again as he slogged squishily toward his bike, which was parked - nowhere near conveniently at this point - at the end of Marine Drive.  His brain had started ticking over again pretty much the moment he’d got them to dry land, and had made a nice, bullet-pointed list, like he’d been trained to do at the academy:

One: The kid needed a doctor.

Two: While doctors were nearby, it wasn’t like a cop’s salary provided Gaish with enough money to pay for some random kid’s room and treatment out of what was in his pockets at the moment.

Three: Gaish would, then, have to take the kid to a “doctor”, several of which he knew quite well, actually, but all of which were far from the graceful lines of Marine Drive.

Four: Gaish had a bike, and unconscious and possibly mortally wounded people were notoriously bad motorcycle passengers.

Five: Gaish also had handcuffs, because there were some things he never left home without.

Six: Even the unconscious and possibly mortally wounded had to give it up to handcuffs, and a guy slumped over with his arms around the driver of a motorcycle would look drunk, not half-dead, so if Gaish drove slowly enough, they just might make it back to Nagpada without becoming either a smear on the pavement or a salacious headline.

It still might kill the kid, but between slim and none, Gaish would take slim every time.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gonsalves gets an unexpected break and discovers just how big a pain has been waiting attach itself to his ass.

At a very young age, Stephen Gonsalves had discovered the sad fact that at some point in his day, he would stop having a good one, probably due to the idiocy of others. He had then reached the sensible conclusion that the problem lay in the rosy optimism of starting out by assuming the day would be good, and avoided that assumption in the future. As a result, even on mornings like this, when he had had a relatively restful sleep, a leisurely breakfast and a smooth commute to the police station despite the machinations of the idiots, the suicidal and the hellbent that made up the vast majority of Mumbai’s traffic, he remained unsurprised by the wave of annoyance that swept over him at the sight of his minions at their desks, and underwent no disappointment at the sight of the pile of files waiting for his attention in his office. Instead, he barked “Coffee!” into the aether of Orders To Be Followed, and was grimly satisfied by the looks of relief that he hadn’t found anything to criticise this morning.

“On your desk, sir,” Irani piped up, having done an excellent impression of someone considering the possibility of imagining sitting still at his desk for two minutes straight. At least he’d learned not to grin. Visibly. It was still in his voice. His insufferably perky voice, which matched his insufferably perky everything else.

“It better not be cold,” Stephen snapped back, more out of habit than anything. The kid had an amazing ability to predict Stephen’s arrival, even if he wasn’t bound to hours as the rest of them were.

Irani nodded, unconcerned, following him into the office. “Got that thing you wanted,” he said, holding up a file.

“What thing?”

Irani lowered his voice, a blissful rarity. “Inspector Tarware sent this over a few hours ago. For your eyes only.”

Which, given the hour of delivery, meant a break, and maybe even a significant one. Stephen nodded, gesturing to him to shut the door behind him, before everyone heard him talking about what Sawarkar had dubbed the Chakravyuha Clusterfuck, because apparently Colaba Trafficking Case was just a little too formal for Mumbai’s finest.  “Did he say what it’s about?” The coffee was already waiting for him. Steaming hot. How the fuck did he do that anyway?

Irani shook his head, and sat down, as if this were a chair in which his butt was entitled to simply arrive, an assumption Stephen was about to correct when his gaze landed on the first page of the file. It was a list of names from the Backbay Warehouse Fire victims, with a note scrawled on the side of the sheet that said _you asked me to keep an eye out for them._  A couple dozen - hm, twenty-six, that was one more than the newspapers had gotten their hands on as of last night, he didn’t see how this was relevant, and - _fuck._   “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._  Irani, I want some files from the back drawer. The ones on Vinesh Patnaik, Abhay Shinde and Suresh Nayak. And _try_  to be discreet about it.”

Irani leaned back - had he been reading the file, the little shit? - and was out of the chair before Stephen was quite done speaking, deciding to add in promptness what he lacked in propriety. He barely noticed the kid go, reading through the file, which was deceptively thick. The information in the other pages wasn’t very comprehensive, which was unsurprising given that the cops on the case had only had a couple of days to work on it. The bodies had been found in the warehouse, all of them, the doors locked from the outside to trap them. Fourteen dead of knife wounds - _fourteen_  - twelve more from smoke inhalation, and all three of his targets had been among the stabbed. Repeatedly stabbed. Fucking Shinde had his eyes gouged out, too... _fuck._  File under Extreme Grudge Death, then. They still didn’t have any clear information on the knives used. What in the actual fuck?

Irani bounced back in the room - the fucking fuck he got that much energy from was a mystery - with a stack of files approximately thrice the size he’d ordered him to get, and grinning at him. “You said be discreet, right?” He waved some files at Stephen, grinning even more as he passed him three of them. “Camouflage.”

Stephen watched him settle back in the chair, raising an eyebrow at the fact that Irani had managed to attain sneakiness, at least for a moment. It wasn’t something he’d ever associated with the kid, who usually had the biggest, drippiest, most sincere expression Stephen had seen that wasn’t actually on a happy puppy. “Hm.” He took the files from him, waving a hand dismissively. “Get out, then.”

“What’s going on?”

Stephen looked up from the files, giving Irani a medium-strength glare. “....you’re still here.”

All that got him was a very firm hunch and a scowl, the sort that said that his butt hadn’t just arrived, it had debuted. “Yes.”

Stephen leaned back and raised the level of the glare to Sawarkar Scuttles At This Point. “Why?”

“Because you haven’t answered me yet.”

“...I did. I told you to get out. Now get out.”

That just got him more hunching, as if Irani could convince him if he compressed his spine enough. “ _No._  You've been sending me all over to get information about these guys - I had to dig through _garbage_  to get Nayak's phone bills - so I want to know what’s going on.”

Stephen gave him a disbelieving look, sheer startlement overtaking growing annoyance. “Do you have _any_  idea how utterly insubordinate you're being right now, you little punk?”

Irani, mind-bogglingly enough, seemed either to not know or not care. It was almost impressive. “You going to punish me with _more_  garbage?”

Stephen scowled right back, stung. “I wasn’t _punishing_ you with garbage. ...until now, anyway.” The worst of it, though, was that the kid... well, he didn’t have a _point,_  because Stephen didn’t owe him fuck-all, but he was certainly the only one under Stephen’s command who had the slightest interest in pursuing the Colaba case. Or, to be more accurate, the only one wide-eyed and energetic enough to have the naivete to believe the case was anything but deader in the water than rotting fish as well as the time to spare to follow the half-baked hunches Stephen had been reduced to pursuing, particularly since his last major lead, a shady “priest” named Ferreira who he’d suspected of being an inside contact, had upped and died not a month ago.

Alternatively, Irani was too stupid to notice that the case was that dead. Though, to be fair, he had to doubt that. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, coming to a decision, if ungraciously.  “They’re dead. All three of them. In the Backbay warehouse arson incident.”

Irani blinked. “All three of them? But I thought they didn't....what were they doing there? Together?”

Stephen glared at him. “How the fuck do you expect me to know?”

Irani slumped a little, giving him a hurt-puppy look that lowered Stephen’s quality of life by approximately twenty-eight percent every time he encountered it, damn the kid. “Yeah.... what’d Tarware say?”

Stephen sighed, giving in. “Right now? Not much. He's not interested in the case I've got you pursuing, and with the whole city screaming about gang wars and crazed arsonists, fuck knows he's probably not got three brain cells to spare for anything but the warehouse fire right now. They were identified during autopsies early this morning, and he sent it off the second he saw.” He paused, fixing Irani with his best glare. “If you tell _anyone_  else about my letting you in on this, I'll make you wish you'd eaten yourself for breakfast.”

Irani beamed at him, apparently missing the best glare entirely in a moment of what Stephen was forced most unwillingly to mentally categorise as ‘squee’. “You're putting me on the case? Awesome!” After a moment, at Stephen’s continued glare, he at least began to wrestle himself to seriousness. Began, and failed. “I won’t say a word, sir, I promise.”

“I'm not _putting you on the case_ ,” Stephen pointed out, because it seemed like the kind of misconception that could lead to notions of independence and cheerfulness. “I wouldn't put you on any case that didn't involve Coffee With Good Timing.”

Irani nodded, several times, as if someone had turned him into one of those infuriating bobbly-headed Tamil dolls. “Yes, sir.”

“You follow every order, you _don't_ think for yourself, and you _try_ to not annoy me into putting a bullet in that vapid grin of yours. Do you understand?”

Irani beamed at him some more. “Got it!”

“....you're grinning at me _right now._ ”

“Sorry, sir.”

The grin had faded quite a bit, if not all the way, which unfortunately and inexplicably left Stephen feeling guilty. Since when had he signed on to be Keeper of Monkeys, anyway? “...if you don't fuck up too much, I'll give you a bit more independence after this case. Solo interviews and reports and so on.”

Irani, to his credit, managed not to grin, or otherwise rub into Stephen’s face the fact that he had just made a concession to _emotions._ Unfortunately, he had somehow achieved a sufficient level of acquaintance with the little fucker’s expressions to recognise a grin even when it wasn’t being plastered all over that idiot face. “Got it.”

Stephen huffed, glad to drop it. “So, what have you deduced about the case so far?”

Irani frowned, thinking about it for a minute, and Stephen returned his attention to the file. His insistence on being let in the loop was a surprise; he’d been remarkably pliant about all the errands and bullshit information-gathering Stephen had sent him on, even though he had to have noticed by this point that the case in question was four years old, and no one even knew for sure if those kids had been trafficked, or if they’d simply drifted out of the city, as so many millions did each year. Stephen would have suspected he was too damn dim to have realised that, but he’d shown a surprising thoroughness, and an ability to make people trust and like him that verged on the supernatural. Stephen had seen an elderly woman who’d just threatened to beat him with a broom if he didn’t get out of her house pinch Irani’s cheeks and call him _beta_  not ten minutes after.

 “Well,” Irani offered, “I figure you were looking into those guys because of that trafficking thing no one cares about, but I didn't see any connections between them from just that. This makes things different, though, right? I mean, if they were all in one place at one time, that means they were definitely connected, somehow. And since all three of them were from your same one case, it kind of has to mean the massacre and the fire were probably something to do with that.” He paused, looking up at Stephen, a little worried. “...Right?”

Stephen nodded, impressed despite himself. He’d already made those connections for himself, but Irani had done them while possessing less information. “So you do have a brain.”

Irani huffed, a weirdly Stephen-like sound. “I’m not an idiot, St-sir.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow at the slip, which was the second one this week, but let it pass. “Could have fooled me.” He took another gulp of coffee, studying the file. “They're pretty burned, but they're all dead from multiple stab wounds. All still armed at the time of death, but very fucking dead. ...Shinde's eyes were missing. Presumed gouged out prior to death. Several guns in the room...” His eyebrow climbed as he saw just how many guns were found in the warehouse entire. “Well, fuck me.”

Irani, thank fuck, wasn’t grinning at all anymore. “How do you get a bunch of guys with guns to sit still for stabbing?”

“You don’t,” Stephen replied curtly. “Particularly not three of them in a room. I don't know how many there were, but only one died of gunshot wounds, which means we can't rule out friendly fire.” And  that was an oddity in itself. Why hadn’t there been more gunshot wounds? “I wonder how many attackers there were....”

“How far apart were the other bodies?” Irani piped up.

Stephen shrugged. “The ones not in the room? All over the warehouse, apparently. Except for six unlucky fucks who died inside a freezer. Smoke inhalation.” Which, on second thought, made no fucking sense.

The same thought had apparently occurred to the brat, because he was frowning, too. “In a _freezer_? How’s that happen?”

“I...don’t know,” Stephen said, flipping through the rest of the reports, but there wasn’t anything else. “There’s nothing else about it that I can find.” Fuck. He’d have to call Tarware. He held up a hand to shut Irani up preemptively as he dialed the number, but it went to voicemail - unsurprising, if he’d been awake until three in the morning. “Sir, this is Gonsalves. I got the message you sent me, and it looks promising. I'd definitely appreciate any further information about the crime that I can get my hands on. Please call me when you have a moment. Thanks.” And as frustrating as it was to be polite to that smug smirking bastard, the fact remained that Stephen owed him for this.

“Is that okay, sir? I mean...it's not our jurisdiction...” Irani sounded quiet, for once.

Stephen gave him a steady look. “No, it’s not. It’s not our case, it’s not our area, and it’s most certainly none of our legal business. And since you don’t want to eat yourself for breakfast...”

Irani nodded a lot again, giving him an uncertain little grin. “So, if they were all pretty spread out, then it would take fewer guys to get to everyone, right? I mean, a cluster of armed guys is tough unless you've got more guys or bigger weapons, but if everyone's spread out in ones or twos, it wouldn't take very many, at all. And knives don't make noise, if you don't count the guy being stabbed.”

Well, that certainly made sense. Stephen made a small sound of agreement. “The theory everyone's running with right now is that the warehouse was being used for some sort of smuggling, and this was either a gang operation that got out of control, or...” he trailed off for a moment, because really, all this is pure speculation, and speculation that’s legally none of their business, besides. If Irani ratted him out, he’d be in trouble. But...fuck, _look_  at him. “...there was some sort of trafficking going on, which just gets more likely based on the dead guys, and a group of people played vigilante.”

“Right, and since it's stabbing, not shooting - 'cause shooting would be easier - I wouldn't rule out Personal. A little group of people with missing friends or family... ”

“For all I know, _I_  brought them together, asking them questions.” The thought, and its attendant responsibility, lay unpleasantly heavily in his stomach. Then again, that responsibility, as far as he knew, would be for the murder of a bunch of shady human traffickers, which was really a quite pleasant sort of weight overall.

“Well, maybe,” Irani agreed. “But you didn't give anyone anyone else's names, right? And I figure you for a guy who figures that separate stories need to stay that way.”

Stephen blinked at him, eyes narrowing. “Since when were you this good at this?”

Irani gave him a flat look, one at odds with the way he usually looked. “You never asked.”

Since that was both true and uncomfortable, Stephen moved on as if he hadn’t said anything in the first place. “That doesn't mean they couldn't have pieced it together, if they could research worth a damn. That's irrelevant right now. I'm going to need you to pick up the reports from

Tarware as he can get his hands on them; the fewer people delivering messages and information the better.” He grabbed Shinde's file, which contained his scribbled notes, too, handing it to him. “Read this, it'll give you the basics of the case. I expect you to know it backwards and inside out by this evening.”

Irani practically pounced on the file. “Yes, sir, I’ll get right on i-” he cut himself off, making an embarrassed face as his stomach growled. Loudly. “Over lunch?” And fuck, there were the puppy eyes again.

“...did you not eat breakfast?” Stephen demanded. Irani had been reticent about his home life, for someone who chattered about everything else like he’d learned how to breathe through his ears, but he seemed to be perpetually hungry, even with the packed lunches he brought.

“I did,” Irani replied, with a shifty-eyed expression that Stephen took to mean that he hadn’t, really.  “But I missed my snack...”

“Fine. Are you going to the bhelwalla again?” The street food vendor was the closest source of cheap food, and surprisingly hygienic by the standards of his peers.

Irani brightened. “Yeah, their food’s good, and it's close, so I can get back here quick.”

Stephen sighed. “Right.” He fished out a fifty-rupee note from his pocket, passing it over. “Get me back a plate of dahi puri and buy yourself lunch with whatever's left.” Which should be over thirty rupees, quite enough for the kid to get his own lunch with the rest. It had become an unwritten rule around the station that people Helped Out with Irani’s meals, a scheme Stephen had unwittingly commenced. A police naik’s salary wasn’t anything to feast off, Irani wasn’t in line for any raises, and he’d mentioned having an elderly aunt he was presumably providing for, to boot.

Irani beamed at him, carefully restrained, seeming surprised, as he always did when someone offered to get him food. “Really? Thanks, St-sir. I’ll be right back!” He practically bounced off the chair and out of the office, file tucked under his arm, leaving Stephen to wonder briefly and uncharitably if the fucker would resemble a vacuum cleaner in khaki quite as much if he learned to detach the invisible pogo sticks from the soles of his feet.

For someone who usually left Stephen feeling as if he was being inexplicably followed by the contents of a particularly good-natured nightclub, he left a strangely displeasing silence behind him when he left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation progresses and Guhar smells a rat.

Guhar grinned to himself, holding the file tightly against his chest as he jogged toward the station.  The past ten days had been the most annoying of his entire life.  Also, the most profanity-and-threats-filled, but that was just Stephen’s frustration over the lack of leads and information on the case and taking that out on Guhar because he was the only other person working it.  That thought of that still made him feel weirdly grinny on the inside, and yeah, okay, it was a dead case, but then it wasn’t anymore, and Stephen didn’t take him off it.  He’d been beginning to wonder, actually, why everyone else was so afraid of the guy.  It wasn’t like Stephen was some kind of ogre or something, he just had a very particular kind of outlook on things and a tendency to be prickly.  He was also really nice-looking, and he’d been buying Guhar’s lunches every work day, probably to make up for making him do all the grunt work.  

Rounding the corner and heading into the last stretch to the station, he forced himself to a walk.  It wouldn’t do to give anyone the impression that anything was Happening on the Colaba case.  It was a stagnant deal, that, everyone knew it.  Of course there wouldn’t be anything new, and they didn’t have anything really big of their own going on at the station, so there was no need to be running, now was there?  All of these things rolled out in Guhar’s head in a remarkably accurate imitation of Stephen’s voice.

He stopped for a few seconds before reaching the door, in order to get his breath under control and arrange his face into a suitably bored and put-upon expression so he wouldn’t give away his excitement.  A couple of the guys looked up when he came in, some smiles, a couple of waves, and one or two looks of smug superiority that were really pretty easy to shrug off.  They didn’t know what was happening with the Clusterfuck, as they insisted on calling it when they ribbed him about hustling around on a dead-end, so Guhar didn’t care.  Besides, they were all afraid of Stephen, or at least managed to hate him a lot, and mostly because of the Clusterfuck, Guhar wasn’t and didn’t, and he called that a win.

Guhar waved back and gave the room at large a kind of sheepish grin and a shrug.  “Hey, Sawarkar, is the boss in?”  He could see that he was, but he’d figured out that it paid to let the other guys guide him like that; it gave them a reason to be nice to that poor new kid who had to deal with Gonsalves all the time.  This may or may not have been abetted by some of Stephen’s finer moments early on, like the time he’d chucked a stapler at Guhar for ‘indecent fucking perkiness’.  Sawarkar nodded.  “Yeah, but you weren’t here to fetch his coffee, so he’s not real happy.”

Guhar shrugged. “When is he ever?” This got him a knowing nod, and he plastered the Expression back onto his face and knocked at Stephen’s office door.  

“Well it’s about fucking time, Irani.  The fuck have you been while the rest of the world does something remotely useful?”  Guhar had to shove down a grin for that, because a) Stephen didn’t believe that the rest of the world did anything remotely useful on its best day, and b) he didn’t even bother to yell it this time, his voice only barely loud enough to reach the first couple of desks outside the office.  One of which was Guhar’s.  He slipped inside and closed the door behind himself, knowing that would get Stephen’s attention and okay, so he still couldn’t grin because Stephen might decide to huck his three-hole punch at him this time or something, but he did drop the sheepish face, and then his butt into the chair he’d started secretly thinking of as his.  Something smelled different in Stephen’s office, today, but he couldn’t really be bothered with figuring out what.

“I just came from Tarware’s office.  They’ve got the findings on the knives.”  With that, he handed over the file with a tiny grin and absolutely no outward sign of his internal bounce.  This was going to make a difference, he _knew_  it.  Not from reading the file, of course; he wasn’t half as suicidal as he’d need to be, to read it before Stephen.  It was just one of those feelings he got, sometimes.  Seriously, though, what was that scent?  He’d smelled it before, but he couldn’t quite place it.  Stephen grabbed the file from him with somewhat less pissiness than usual, and Guhar watched a crease appear between his brows as he read it.  

After approximately one minute, Stephen looked slowly up at Guhar.  “What?”

“What, what?”  

Stephen huffed.  “Go get me some proper fucking coffee and let me read in peace,” he said, but it lacked heat, so Guhar did not grin and got up, grabbing Stephen’s coffee cup on his way out.  It didn’t bother him, doing this stuff; Stephen treated him differently, when they were alone and working the Colaba case, and even if that didn’t translate to when people were looking, that was fine.  Stephen had a thing going and it seemed to work for him, so as far as Guhar was concerned, if it only peripherally affected him, the rest of the time was easy to ignore.  That scent followed him out of the office and into the street.  Since he didn’t have any idea what was in the file, he amused himself with trying to place it while he trotted to the chaiwalla a few doors down..

Back in Stephen’s office, he put the cups down and settled again, waiting as quietly and patiently as he could, pulling in slightly deeper breaths than usual.  Eventually, Stephen put the file down and pulled his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“What’s it say?”

Stephen rubbed at one eye with the back of his hand, glasses dangling from his fingers, and his voice was quiet.  Tired, almost.  Guhar resisted the urge to reach out to him, to pet that pretty blond hair that didn’t match the rest of him even a little bit.  “Apparently the casts of the knife wounds all came out the same, in extrapolation.  And entirely too fucking generic to be of any use at all.  Just a large kitchen knife, the kind everyone uses everywhere in the history of fucking food.  All exactly the same.  Damn it.  Did Tarware say anything to you about this?”  

Guhar shook his head.  “Not much that you didn’t just say, except that freezer where those people died of smoke inhalation wasn’t one.  Not even converted, so that’s a win for our theory.  He took long enough that I heard some things, though.”  Guhar grinned.  “No one pays much attention to me, see.”  For a half-second, Stephen looked almost slightly impressed.  He was really pretty when he wasn’t scowling.  Also when he was, but this was a lot better.  “They figure it's a group - pretty big, like six or seven - that reckoned on confusing us by all using the exact same weapon.  Seems like one of them liked cutting throats, except on that one guy who was stabbed there, instead.”

Stephen listened and Guhar could see the wheels beginning to turn in earnest for a moment before Stephen went back to the file, flipping up a couple of pages to scan those underneath.  That smell returned to prickle at Guhar, leaving the back of his brain free to turn things over while he tried to pick it apart.  Stephen flipped another page, and then another, his frown deepening with each new thing he read.  “....hn. Depth of wounds, angles... what, were all of the gang the same height, too?”

“Yeah,” Guhar answered slowly, “‘s what I was thinking.”

Dropping the pages in his fingers and straightening slowly to look at Guhar, Stephen looked almost stricken.  “So, given the total lack of guns, it's....one guy.  Fuck, it’s _one fucking guy._ ”

Guhar blinked at him, and for a second he didn’t follow, but then there it was, all the evidence lining up nice and neat and not remotely likely in any world.  And yet.  He reached over to grab the file from Stephen’s desk, scanning the pages quickly for numbers, measurements...

“Irani, was the one who was stabbed in the throat found near the guy who was shot?”

Third page, position, proximity.  “Yeah, the shot guy was half on top of him.”  Guhar looked up at Stephen again, frowning himself, now.  “Shield?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Guhar didn’t grin, because that would be both inappropriate and an invitation to abuse, but still, it was pretty pleasing that he got there, too.  He was getting maybe a little bit addicted to the grudging kind of approval in Stephen’s gaze when he did well.  It made him happy to make Stephen happy...or whatever passed for happiness with that guy, anyway.  “Okay, so that makes the three guys in one room possible for one dude with a knife. 'Cause those ones pulled their guns, but only the one guy got shot, and the autopsy says the third one had some bruising at the base of the skull, so...”

A nod and a small sound of agreement from Stephen.  “Yes. Did they find anything about the blood trail?”  Guhar was impressed that Stephen managed not to launch into another tirade about the fucking media breaking that bit.  “The official story still seems to be that they don't have any leads on who it might be.”

“He said they’re still at a loss on that one.  The samples they got were contaminated by the accelerant and things, and anything after the pier got eaten by the water.”  Guhar pulled in a deep breath, the familiar scents of Stephen and his office, smoke and  cheap fabric,  metal and paper...and that other thing, light and floral, winding around all of it.  It was disconcerting and starting to bug him more than a little bit.

Stephen’s displeased sound broke him from that train of thought again.  “Right. Strange, though. The tide was out when the fire was set, whoever it was would have had to swim out to a boat, or be carried out to one...”  Quiet _tsk_.  “And no one's been reported with a gunshot wound in the area, yes?”

Guhar shook his head.  “Nope.  None that fit the time frame, or that were in any shape to have done something like this.”

“Fuck.”  Stephen fell silent, staring up at the ceiling, and Guhar’s brain wandered off once more to the apparently pressing issue of that scent.  He leaned forward, inhaling deeply through his nose again. He didn’t notice the glare for a long moment.  “...the fuck are you doing?”

Startled, Guhar sat back again, wide-eyed and more than a little embarrassed to have been caught.  “Sorry, sir, but...you smell weird.”

_“What.”_

His mind a bit behind the conversation, Guhar scrambled, “Not, like, objectively weird, not bad just...”  he sighed and finished lamely, “weird for you.”

Stephen, apparently feeling that this explanation was lacking, reiterated, “What.”

Guhar was horrified to note that he was flailing a little bit at the distinct probability that he’d been incredibly offensive.  “I don’t mean...it’s just weird,” he finished lamely.

Later, Guhar would be very impressed with himself for managing to sit through the long glare Stephen gave him, then.  It was very loud and very flat and seemed to take approximately forever.  “You know what’s weird, Irani?  You’re smelling me.   _That’s_  fucking weird.”

Hunching a little in his chair, Guhar gave Stephen a look that managed to get right about halfway between sheepish and indignant.  “It’s not like I run around sniffing you, you know.  I just know what you smell like, and right now you smell like...you plus frangipani.  Or something.”   After a long moment, “‘S pretty, though.”

“You _just_  sniffed me.”

“Because you smell different!”

“Pretty.”

“...Yeah.  I like your old cologne better, but I can get used to this.”

Stephen graced Guhar with another stare, even longer and louder than the last.  When he finally spoke, it was carefully slow, as if Guhar wouldn’t understand at normal speed. Or maybe that was just Stephen keeping his temper, which would be kind of flattering, actually. “I used a new tailor.  She burns incense in the shop.”  Suddenly, there was a folded up fifty-rupee note flying at him with rather a lot of force.  “Get the fuck out of my office before I shoot you.”  

Well, that was an order Guhar didn’t need twice. His cheeks heated as he jumped up, money in hand, and headed out of the office.  A little time and some food would probably fix Stephen right up.  Oh, maybe some sweets...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stephen willingly takes Guhar to lunch and an unexpected meeting reveals a new piece of the puzzle.

There was a pretty decent little eatery not far from the station, where a lot of the local cops went for lunch.  Guhar had never been there, mostly due to his undying affection for street bhel, but Stephen had decided that they should go today.  It struck Guhar as strange for several reasons: first, that Stephen seemed to generally dislike interacting with other human beings beyond what was absolutely required; second, that Stephen seemed to generally dislike giving anyone the impression that he was willingly spending time with Guhar; and third, walking to the little diner included walking.

Guhar took a couple of quick steps to get just far enough ahead of Stephen to open the door for him, a thing that Stephen seemed to take so far in stride that Guhar wondered vaguely if he regularly just walked into doors that no one had opened for him.  He was an odd fish, Stephen Gonsalves, and Guhar couldn’t help but be fascinated by him.  He’d never met anyone who was such a mass of contradictions; the circles he was used to tended to be either in straight-up survival mode, in which case you never assumed there was a thing they wouldn’t do, if they had to, or the kind that was Perfect on the outside and deeply fucked up and misanthropic on the inside.  Those ones didn’t tend to be conflicted or contradictory, though.  Not unless you believed their smiles.  

Of course, Stephen was also very pretty, a thing of which Guhar’s brain frequently  and helpfully reminded him as the days passed and Stephen got more used to his presence and less randomly pissy.  Okay, marginally less, but still less.  There were things about him that made Guhar wonder, but that were definitely not up for discussion, like his hair.  It wasn’t natural, it almost _couldn’t_  be - not with his colouring.  But it was always perfect, blond right to the root, and that meant that he was being insanely careful about making sure that was the case.  It was a mystery, and almost overwhelmingly tempting.

It was cooler inside, if not by much, and busy.  Most of the tables were filled with people wolfing down food like it was going to get up and wander off their plates if they weren’t quick enough.  Stephen led him to the counter on the right side of the door, and they stood, waiting for someone to come and take their order.   It had been a long couple of weeks since the break that Tarware had given them and  Stephen had hunched out the single-killer theory.  They’d been reduced to turning over well-turned rocks and trying to find something new scuttling around underneath.  It was starting to wear on both of them, but still Stephen had the file under his arm, and they were going to keep right on turning, because it seemed like better than just waiting.

“I want a pav bhaji,” Stephen barked the second the guy got close enough, “no butter on the pav, mango lassi to go with it.”  Okay, and so it really was just that Stephen was just always like that.  It wasn’t about people he knew or disliked, or anything like that.  Well, that made Guhar feel better about things, even though it mostly seemed like those things kind of didn’t apply to him anymore.  The guy rang that up and looked expectantly at Guhar, who gave him a grin that got him absolutely zero response.  Okay, then.

“I'd like two plates of samosas, special pav bhaji with two extra pav, and some sev puri...and an extra-large lassi, sweet, please.”  He tried again, an even bigger grin, but all that got him was a raised eyebrow.  Oh well.  Turning, he caught the Look Stephen was giving him, all flat and expectant, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that so he just stared back.

“...I’m not paying for your dinner, too,” he said.  Guhar didn’t know what to do with that, either.

“Of course not.”  

After a long moment of Guhar looking thoroughly puzzled at him, Stephen ventured, “...you’re not seriously going to eat all that.”

“Huh?  Why not?”

“At one shot?”

Guhar was beginning to feel like this was a Thing.  “Yeah?”  Stephen stared at him for a moment longer, made a rather pissy little sound under his breath, and stopped Guhar when he made to get his wallet, pulling out his own and turning back to the guy behind the counter.  Guhar was still puzzled, because it wasn’t like Stephen hadn’t seen what Guhar brought to work from home and still bought him lunch lots of times, before.  The man was odd.

Just as Stephen finished settling the bill, the door bell tinkled a rather sadly broken tune.  Guhar looked that way out of habit and saw something that made his jaw drop.  The man was tall by any standard, but certainly for an Indian, broad across the shoulders, square-jawed and sporting a long mane of deep red hair.  Not bottle-red - Guhar had seen that before, and this definitely wasn’t - but rich, the strands framing the man’s face, a little bit unruly and just incredibly pretty.  He raised a hand, and Guhar flushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring so obviously at a stranger.

Incredible as it seemed though, the stranger wasn’t looking at Guhar. He was waving (and grinning) at Stephen. “Hey, Steve,” the man all but purred with a sharp little grin that gave him a rakish kind of look. As he got closer, Guhar noticed that his left cheek was scarred. Oddly, it didn’t take anything away from his looks. If anything it made him seem mysterious and maybe a little bit dangerous. Between that and his easy gait, Guhar found himself thinking that this man probably had lots of luck in the romance department. He leaned against the counter, Guhar between him and Stephen. “What’s cooking?”

Stephen scowled even harder than usual, grabbing Guhar’s arm as he grumbled back, “Nothing.  Nothing is cooking.  Go away, fucknut.”  He promptly tugged Guhar away from the counter, dragging him across the floor and muttering, “Ignore the redhead,” into his ear.  The man stayed at the counter, his soft chuckle following them to the farthest table Stephen could find in the small room.

As they were settling into their seats, Guhar took the opportunity to lean across and ask Stephen softly, “Who’s that guy?”  Stephen plonked himself down onto his chair and gave Guhar a stern look.

“Never you mind.”

“But-”

“No.”

Guhar sighed, but let it go at that, because there were glasses on the table, and there was only so much risk he was willing to take.  Besides, that tone was pretty new, and he didn’t know what it meant, yet, so he wasn’t about to take chances on actually pissing Stephen off.  Even though the guy seemed to know him pretty well, actually.  Oh!  Maybe they had some sort of torrid Past...

Their retreat was short-lived, the redheaded man heading straight for them once he was done placing his order, and the grin he was giving Stephen did nothing to dispel Guhar’s previous possible conclusion.

“Good to see you, too, asshole,” the man said, looking down at Stephen with one one hand in his pocket and leaning on one leg.  He waited for a second, but when he got nothing but a glare, the man turned to Guhar and gave him a slow once-over that made Guhar’s skin flush a little bit.  A large hand came down on his shoulder, heavy and warm.  “Hey, kid.  Since Steve’s not going to do it, I’ll introduce myself.  Name’s Gaish Shah.”

“I told you not to call me that.”  Stephen’s voice came through, but it was more petulant than angry, so Guhar felt fairly safe in ignoring it.  He blinked up at the man, his brain on a bit of a stutter over _Steve_ , and he found himself returning a warm, inviting grin.  “I’m Guhar Irani.”  The man nodded once, got one back from Guhar, and then turned his attention back to Stephen.

“Ah, right, sorry, Anthony.”   

“Aren’t you ever going to get tired of that stupid fucking joke?”

Guhar wasn’t really listening.  He couldn’t stop staring at that hair.  It was unusual to the point of being completely unique in his experience, and it was fascinating.  Also, the guy had _blue_  eyes.  Deep blue.  And he was unmistakably Indian.  As far as Guhar could tell, he’d just introduced himself to a genetically impossible man.  It was surreal.

Gaish was chuckling again, a low, warm sound that made Guhar want to join him.  “Not if you keep making that face.  So,”  he looked down at Guhar again, then back to Stephen, “What’s this, a hot date?”  Unbelievably, he winked at Stephen.  It was like he’d been put on the planet specifically to make Stephen’s head explode or something.  Also, apparently, to make Guhar squirm uncomfortably in his chair.  

“In your dreams,” Stephen grumbled.  “Fuck off.”

“Nah,” Gaish said, reaching out to grab a chair, “I like brunettes.”  He turned the chair backwards to the table and settled down straddling it while he gave Guhar an outright leering look.  He really was very good-looking, and easy to like, with that voice and simple manner.  He reminded Guhar of someone he used to know an eternity ago, and that was nice.

“You know,” Stephen said, “I say a thing, and you just don’t listen.”

Guhar shrugged.  “He’s just picking stuff up, sir.”  He didn’t want Gaish to go away.  He was interesting, and kind of fun.  Also, Stephen’s annoyance was amusing, and Guhar really was picking up on something weirdly connected between them.  Another mystery.  He quite liked this kind; it didn’t involve missing kids and bunches of burned corpses.

“Yeah, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, Steve.  Be nice.”  Gaish grinned again, seemingly pleased with Guhar’s defense.

Stephen glared at Guhar in that particular kind of way that meant he was about to either give in or throw something at someone.  Guhar found it fascinating that one look could mean such different things, but that was Stephen.  Guhar was good enough at reading him now to duck or be gracious, as the situation required.  “Oh, I know,” Stephen shot back, ignoring Gaish altogether.  “Picking things up is his _other_  career.”

“Huh?” Guhar ventured, while Gaish gave him a kind of amiable leer.  

Stephen fixed Guhar with a severe look.  “Never mind.  You’re not old enough for this stuff.”  Which left Guhar with a bit of a pout and  the very real question of just how young Stephen thought he was, but he’d sooner staple his fingers together than seriously argue with Stephen in public over something so small, so he just looked back to Gaish.

“Are you a cop, too?”  He couldn’t imagine that Stephen would know a guy like this any other way.  Gaish was giving him a long look, and Guhar got the feeling he was calculating something, but it passed and the grin returned.

“Noble rescuer of fair maidens and innocent children, that’s me.”

“He’s in Juvenile Aid and Protection,” Stephen translated.  “And half the time, the fair maidens need nobly rescuing _from_  him.”

Gaish all but rounded on Stephen, giving him a stony look.  “Yeah, that’s why I got into it, for all the shell-shocked chicks.”  Under his breath, he added, “Asshole.”   Guhar mentally adjusted his view of Gaish; it took a special kind of person to deal with abused women and children for a living, and the look in his eyes was enough to tell Guhar that response was fair.  Gaish reached for the file on the table, a very effective move to change the subject, given Stephen.  “What you got there?”

Incredibly, Stephen let Gaish have it, and Guhar boggled.  Okay, clearly that relationship needed a reassessment, because there was no way Stephen would do that unless he trusted Gaish - and Stephen, Guhar knew, trusted almost no one.  Maybe they really _did_  have a Past, after all.  That would account for both the animosity and the trust.  But then it would likely have ended in bullets instead of tears, and Guhar just gave up on trying to figure it out.  It was a lost cause.

“Backbay warehouse autopsy reports and a summary of the investigation so far.”

“Yeah, that lit up all the way to Marine Drive.” Gaish raised an eyebrow, getting serious.  “What’s the deal?  Any leads?”

Stephen shook his head, “No real leads, no.  The fire got rid of an awful lot of evidence, and the one blood trail they found ends at the water.  Whoever did it got rid of a number of people I’d been watching in that fucking Colaba trafficking case.”

Gaish opened the file and scanned the front page.  “The Colaba case?”  Gaish gave a low whistle, and Guhar could see that Gaish was interested; since he worked JAPU, Stephen had probably talked to him about it before.  “Which ones?”

There was a quiet moment where Guhar watched Stephen watch Gaish, who seemed oddly absorbed in the file.  “Patnaik, Nayak and Shinde.  Who seems to have had his eyes gouged out, by the way.”  Gaish looked at Stephen, and Stephen looked back, strangely still.  “You heard anything about who might have offed them?  Any of your Stray Parade give you any information?”

Gaish shook his head.  “Well, shit. Figures your one fucking break would be them all ending up dead together. Sorry, man. I haven't heard anything solid, though.”  He considered for a second, then asked, “You find out who owned the place? 'Cause I'll lay you ten to one that'll get you something, at least. Lots of shady shit in those parts leads back to some sitting-pretty fucker on a hill.”

Leaning back in his chair, Stephen sighed.  “Beats me. As far as I know, the warehouse was part of a non-profit trying to provide some income backup to Macchimaar Nagar, offering freezers for anyone interested in preserving their catch.  They're still investigating that, because it all seems too pat, but I'm not officially in on that loop, so I get what my contacts tell me. Which isn't that much, so far. The non-profit seems to be funded by a Rajshri Patil, though she's not the one actually administering anything, as far as anyone knows.”

Mirroring Stephen’s move, Gaish straightened up a bit.  “Rajshri Patil?”  He gave Stephen a long look.  “Steve, old buddy, I might just have something for you.”

“Don’t call me that.”  Pause, a shrug from Gaish.  “What have you got?”

 

“Well, I don't know about now, but a couple of years back there was a buzz on that she had herself a tasty little piece on the side. Apparently pretty intense. Suresh Shankar ring any bells?”

“The philanthropist?”

Gaish nodded.  “That’s the one.”  Guhar looked from Gaish to Stephen and back again, taking note of names and what connections had been sussed out; these things were important now, sure, but he knew how easily things heard in one place might come in useful somewhere else entirely.  Stephen made a thoughtful kind of sound in his throat.  

“Well, now,” he ventured, “you think she’s covering for his involvement, then?”  

Right, well that lost him.  It was all very well and good that the two of them knew what they were talking about and who these people were, but it did Guhar no good at all to know names and a connection, if he didn’t know anything else about them.  “Uh...who?”

“Suresh Shankar is one of those dudes that makes a profession out of being a patronizing asshole,” Gaish explained.  “The last five years or so, he’s been picking high-ground pockets for The Poor Orphans.”

Guhar could just about hear his own eyes getting wider.  “Like the Colaba kids.”

Gaish grinned and clapped Guhar on the shoulder again.  “No wonder he hasn’t killed you yet.”  It felt really bizarre to be pleased by that, but Guhar was.  He beamed and Stephen grumbled, but it sounded less than wholly pissy.

“He has his moments.  So, how provable is this link?  Even remotely?”

Shaking his head, Gaish answered on a sigh.  “Probably not.  It’s all going to be hearsay and from the lowly, and you know how that runs.  At this point, though, anything’s worth a shot, right?”

“Yeah, and fuck, if I keep looking, I’ll probably turn up something.  Eventually.  At least I have a name.”  Stephen looked over Gaish’s shoulder with a little frown.  “Your food’s ready to go.”  The frown deepened.  “What, are you feeding an army?”

Gaish looked back over his shoulder to the guy who was waving and smiling ingratiatingly at him and waved back before turning back to Stephen.  “Got a friend.”

“You mean an _um_ friend.”  Stephen’s eyebrow was even louder than the innuendo.  Guhar hadn’t known Stephen could do innuendo.  

Gaish paused just a beat longer than felt right, then gave a confused Guhar another once-over, and his little grin was even louder than Stephen’s innuendo _or_  his eyebrow.  “Yeah, okay.”  He rose smoothly from the chair and put it back at the next table, his hand coming down on Guhar’s shoulder again.  “Nice to meet you, kid.  I’ll let you know if I hear anything good, Steve.”  And then he was gone, sloping off to the counter for his giant bag of food, and Guhar watched him go, impressed all over again by the easy look and feel of him.  Even if he did seem kind of generally ravaged.

“What?” Stephen called after him.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

All that got him was a smirk and a little finger-wave as Gaish pushed to door open and strode off into the wild heat of Mumbai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Anthony" Joke: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cl2T-Itb7WQ


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A paper-thin ploy, a quiet conversation, bad news is good news, and a new person for Stephen to detest.

The papers were fucking annoying. But then the papers were always fucking annoying. They’d taken to wild speculation about the warehouse fire ever since the full list of the deceased had been (carefully) leaked to the media, dubbing the killer(s) the Mumbai Justice League or Mumbai’s Batman, based on whether they thought one killer or a dozen would sell better that  day. Stephen had taken to rage-consuming the media coverage almost obsessively, until by the ninth week since the fire, Guhar had begun to discreetly edit the newspapers in the station, and everyone else was wondering what exactly had crawled up his ass and died, though they had the discretion to do it where they thought he wouldn’t hear it, at least. He did anyway, largely because if something were going to annoy him, it would cross the earth and swim the seas to do it in as accessible and helpfully insistent a manner as possible.

Of course, no one suspected Shankar yet, aside from the few cops Tarware had picked to investigate him; Gaish’s tip had unearthed enough of a connection to warrant surveillance, at least, but Tarware had apparently done well in keeping that whole angle from the media. Stephen hadn’t even seen hints of it, even on the more conspiracy-loving websites.

Since nothing else related to the trafficking had turned up that Tarware could think of, the news from his end had trailed off, leaving Stephen with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and terrorise his team. And listen to Guhar be aggressively cheerful at him for no discernible reason. He’d just become more annoying by the day, really. At some point, he’d even succeeded in getting Stephen to think of him by his first name, something he’d resolutely refused to do with any of his other subordinates, damn it. And yet, there he was, being as aggressively first-named in Stephen’s mind as he was cheerful at his face. Fucker.

It might not have been so bad, all things said and done, if Stephen had had any other leads to pursue that he wasn’t hoping to get from the warehouse massacre case. But, since three of his main suspects were dead, as well as several of their associates, he was stonewalled at every damn turn. Even Stephen’s normally pessimistic attitude, which he personally considered to be healthy enough, had deteriorated into something approaching sullen resignation. The last time Gaish had asked him how the case was going, he’d nearly bitten the interfering bastard’s head off for poking his nose where it didn’t belong, except Stephen’s nose didn’t belong there either, and _fuck_  did that burn.

~~~~~

There. It was slim and stupid, but it would do, Stephen concluded, hanging up on the new director. One missing orphan, who disappeared from Hands of Mercy close enough after Ferreira’s death that inquiring whether Ferreira would have known where he might go would be a legitimate question. He didn’t think the boy had been trafficked - kidnapping them right out of orphanages simply wasn’t Ferreira’s (suspected?) style - but it was worth looking into. At this point, anything that let him look at anyone who wasn’t directly related to the warehouse case, and thus Tarware’s turf, was worth giving a shot. “Irani! We’re moving.”

Guhar looked up at him, a little startled, but he shut down his computer immediately. “Okay...where are we moving to?”

“We’re checking out an orphanage. Come on.”

Guhar complied immediately, grabbing their coffee cups. “Are we going to get dinner on the way? It’s nearly eight...”

“...didn’t you bring a box with you this afternoon?”

Guhar wibbled at him. “That was my tiffin!”

“ _Fine_ ,” Stephen ground out. “After.  But you’re getting your own damn dinner.”

Guhar grinned at him as they walked out of the station. “Sure. Yours, too.”

Stephen looked at him sideways, but he didn’t seem unduly bothered by the idea of paying for two dinners. Then again, it was only three days since payday. “All right, if you’re sure.”

Guhar beamed at him. “Totally sure. Anything you want.”

“Nn.” Stephen got into his side of the car. “So, we’re headed to Hands of Mercy. It’s a “residential school and vocational training centre” for older orphans, and it’s one of the projects Shankar’s had his filthy hands all over for at least three years. Ferreira was working there when he died. You recognise him from the Colaba case, yeah?” At least, he’d better; Ferreira had been running an orphanage from which no less than four aged-out kids had disappeared in under two years.

Guhar was frowning. “Yeah, I do, but why?”

Stephen shrugged, getting on the road. “He was transferred to Mercy at high fucking speed in the middle of the school year and he died not a month before the warehouse fire.”

Guhar nodded, frowning deeper. “Yeah, but he’s dead.”

“Do _you_  have any other bright ideas?”

Guhar made a frustrated little sound. “Okay, but what, are we going to do, just turn up and ask questions about a dead guy for giggles?”

Stephen sighed. “No.  I've got a missing persons report to cover my ass with. Some kid ran away from the orphanage, a little while after Ferreira died. I'm fairly sure he didn't get trafficked, because Ferreira's deal was ratting out aged-out kids, not ones still in his care, but it's a way to get us in there, at least.”

Guhar considered that very seriously. He had a surprisingly endearing Thoughtful Face, considering literally every other expression he had annoyed the fuck out of Stephen. “Okay, that's decent. And you'll have me.” He was beaming idiotically at him, like that was something Stephen had signed up for, as opposed to being saddled with this kid. That he was taking him out voluntarily on one-man interviews to investigate leads was probably a symptom of Stockholm syndrome. Besides, having him around, being all wide-eyed and idealistic and trusting, made Stephen feel marginally less like the insane tinfoil aspirer he probably realistically was.

“It’s all I’ve got, so it better be. And if this doesn’t turn anything up, we're fucked. The case is fucking fucked. In fact, to continue with the theme, everything's fucking fucked. Ferreira's our last hope. And his death's at least _somewhat_  suspicious....”

“I thought he had a heart attack.”

“...yes, that's what they said.”

“So how is that suspicious?”

Stephen snorted loudly. “Look, my father was a priest. I _know_  their thinking. Any kind of "inappropriate" death, they cover up as heart attacks. It's a courtesy cops do them, sometimes, when it seems like what actually happened was a drug overdose, or suicide, or dying with his cock up another priest’s ass. And Ferreira wasn’t even forty, and he looked healthy enough, the rat.”

“Is it that common?” Guhar asked after a moment. Stephen had to give him credit for not asking the obvious question, since repressing any amount of curiosity seemed to cause him actual pain.

“Common enough,” Stephen replied. It didn’t happen daily, but when it did, people gossipped.

There was a small silence, while Guhar attempted to wrestle with his curiosity some more, and Stephen let him stew. Finally, he relented. “Go ahead. I know you want to.”

“...how was your father a priest?”

Stephen sighed. “He found me on the beach near the fishing hamlet in Goa where he was preaching, and more or less...acquired me. And eventually adopted me by some shady means or another, since it's hardly acceptable for Catholic priests to adopt children.” And it hadn’t come without its share of people insinuating shit about why he’d done it, but Domingos had never minded.

Guhar was squinting at him. “Why’d he adopt you, then?”

Stephen snorted. “The one time I asked him he told me, and I quote, that I had such big eyes and the cutest little butt.”

There was a brief silence, while Stephen waited for the laughter. Or the flail as Guhar tried not to laugh. It was usually entertaining to watch, either way, the few times he tried it. Instead, Guhar just shrugged, seeming to have arrived at a Conclusion. “What?” Stephen asked.

Guhar giggled a little. “You really do.”

...what in the flying fuckity fuck was that supposed to mean? Of course, he couldn’t exactly ask without using the words “cutest little butt” to refer to his current posterior, so that was out of the question. “....Anyway, he managed to keep me under some sort of wraps. Or he didn't, but people owed him favours. Or they thought he was just some crazy ex-pat with a saviour complex.”

Guhar nodded slowly, seeming to chew that over, but he didn’t press further. Which was as Stephen preferred, since he wasn’t remotely interested in discussing what had happened to Domingos. Eventually, Guhar volunteered, “Seems like he was a good father.”

Stephen nodded tightly. “The best.” A simple fact, and probably the most important Fact in his life.

Guhar smiled, but dropped it, thankfully. “So what's the deal on the missing kid? Just so I don't say something wrong.”

Stephen shrugged. “Pretty garden-variety, really. He ran away from the orphanage a couple of months ago, apparently left a note saying he was going to try finding a sister. The story's that he's a person of interest in a murder, and I need to find out if he left an address or still contacts anyone in the orphanage.”

Guhar considered that. “Not a _suspect,_  though. Makes sense that they'd be more willing to talk, in that case.”

“Mm. Defuse any defensiveness or protectiveness.”

“Okay, got it. ...what’s the kid’s name?”

“I have him here as Matthew Darr.”

“Matthew Darr,” Guhar repeated skeptically.

Stephen nodded. “Gift from fucking god. Catholic orphanages usually paste a nice Christian name on their inductees.”

Guhar frowned. “Well, when they convert...”

“They don’t always wait until they do. They’re supposed to, but...” Fuck, and even six years later, he couldn’t think of the thing without remembering his father’s Opinions on the matter.

Guhar snorted loudly. “Well that’s not creepy at all or anything.”

Stephen shrugged. “It’s against policy, but they’re just _foundlings,_  right?”

“..So they don't deserve to have their own names?”

“Don’t ask me. I never approved of that shit.”

Guhar huffed. “Good. It’s asshole.” After a second, he added, more quietly and fiercely, “Names are important.”

Stephen gave him a curious look, but didn’t push it. “Yes, they are. ...Irani. Did Tarware give you any information about when the raid on the Bandra warehouse is scheduled?”

Guhar beamed, like he’d done every time Stephen asked him to report on Tarware’s investigations. He seemed ridiculously pleased that Stephen was, as he’d put it, trusting him to handle sensitive information. That was a crock of shit; Stephen was only making him do that because it was too much of a pain to collect everything from Tarware himself. There was no trust involved. “Yeah, uh...Tomorrow.  They think a ship will be in just after dark.  They don't think anything will happen until just before the fishing boats come in, though, so they plan to wait until all of that goes down and raid once the ship's docked.”

Stephen made a thoughtful sound. “Right.” That meant they’d have evidence tomorrow, at least enough to nab Shankar, maybe even to take down the people he was shipping to. “And do they have anything else on Shankar? Or are they still investigating him?”

“Oh, they found some stuff that stinks bad, but seems like it's not enough to take him on.  They're still looking, though.”

“I hope they hang the bastard,” Stephen muttered.

Guhar smiled a little, for some reason. “Yeah.  So this new director guy, anything weird on him that you saw?”

“It was an internal promotion, from what I understand. He seems clean, but be fucked if I know. It wouldn't make sense for them to recruit two from the same orphanage, though. They only need names, addresses, some basic information from someone who wins the kids' trust enough to get them to spill those details even after leaving, or to stay in touch. Chances are, if this guy's unpopular, he's not who we want.”

 Guhar nodded a little. “That makes sense, yeah.”

Stephen drummed his fingers impatiently on the wheel. “ I just wish I had more than some stupid missing persons report to go on. Even looking through his files might give us something, if they hung on to it...”

Guhar snorted softly. “If it wasn't at least in code, they'd be too stupid to pull any of this shit off.”

“Ch. At least that'd give us something to go on.”

“Well, we've got what we've got,” Guhar sighed. They were in the sleepy little neighbourhood of the orphanage now, an old residential area where they’d probably grabbed the property before people realised Mumbai wasn’t just going to expand in one direction.  “Just be nice, and maybe we'll get something decent.”

Stephen gave him a sideways look. “What, you think I'm not nice?”

Guhar gave him an expression that really had to be called a smirk. “Oh, _I_  think you're nice.”

Stephen’s lips quirked a little despite his best effort. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Guhar shrugged, still smirking. “I think you're nice.  I like you.  I also get your coffee right, though.”

Stephen snorted. “You're being insubordinate again.”

Guhar grinned. “Sorry, sir.”

Stephen shook his head, but didn’t bother addressing the obvious crock of shit that was that apology. Besides, they were already almost at the orphanage. The directions had said to take a right at Rai Electricals, which would...right. There it was. He pulled up outside the orphanage, Guhar leaping out before he’d even quite stopped, the little shit, bouncing around to Stephen’s side of the car. “Do you _have_  to do that?”

Guhar blinked at him, utterly and obviously befuddled. “Huh?  What?”

“Never mind,” Stephen sighed, getting out of the jeep. The orphanage - and whatever the hell they wanted to call themselves, they were definitely that - had high walls piled with broken glass at the top and a heavy gate, the kind of setup people decided to spend money on when they wanted to keep people from looking in or getting out. The building itself was boxy, adorned with a tiny lawn and possessing none of the pretenses towards play areas or aesthetic appeal that orphanages aimed at younger children had.

Stephen knocked on the door of the office, a small area that jutted out of the main building, and after a moment, it was opened by a priest who looked up at him with a wide, insincere, too-white smile that Stephen mistrusted instantly. “Good evening, Sub-Inspector Gonsalves,” the  priest said, brushing a hand through his creepily well-groomed hair as he shook hands with Stephen. “Do come in.”

The first sign of ornamentation was on the inside of the office, which was almost disgustingly comfortable-looking in comparison with what the rest of the place was probably like, with soft couches and generic “Indian art” of the fishermen-and-village-girls kind. Stephen sat down as politely as possible, kept his sneer almost completely off his face as far as he could tell and began. “Good evening, and sorry for the short notice, Father da Silva. We just have a few questions about Matthew Darr's disappearance, as I said over the phone.”

Da Silva looked over at Guhar once, concluded (as Stephen wanted him to conclude) that he was a peon and a nonentity and ignored him. “Well, I'm always glad to help out Mumbai's finest.” The smile grew a few notches brighter.

“Have you been the director long?”

Shrugging gracefully, da Silva gave Stephen a bizarrely flirtatious smile. “Only a few months.  I was transferred here after the unfortunate passing of Father Ferreira.”

Stephen would have arranged his features into a sympathetic expression, if he had been remotely certain he could have done it without looking like he was going to go for da Silva’s throat instead. “So, were you personally acquainted with Darr at all, in that time?”

Da Silva frowned a little. “Not terribly well, actually.  It took about a week for me to get moved over here, and Matthew left us very shortly after that.  He seemed a quiet boy, though.  Kept to himself, mostly, and didn't cause trouble.”

Great. The standard descriptors for honours students and postal workers. “Oh. Did he have any friends here? Anyone he was close to?”

Da Silva shook his head, his voice exactly the right amount of sad. “Unfortunately, he seemed resistant to all attempts to draw him out.  Except, of course, for his sister, to whom he was very close.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “A sister?” Maybe she had some connection to Ferreira that he could use. Either way, the less he acted like he knew, the better.

“Yes.  She was gone before I got here, however.  I'm simply relaying what I was told about him when I arrived, and what was in his file.”

Stephen leaned forward. “Would you mind telling me what you have on him?”

“What I have, in terms of what?” The priest looked suspicious. Damn it.

“ Information on what he was like. A contact address for the sister would be good.” Stephen hesitated a second, before venturing, “I can't help but wonder if he ran away because of Father Ferreira's death, considering the timing.”

Another oily-sad look and a sigh. “I've been told that Matthew was...an odd child.  All of his reports have been that he was incredibly well-behaved, but aloof to the point of discomfort for many of the people around him.  Again, I didn't have much chance to become acquainted with him. ...since his disappearance was already investigated, may I ask why you're looking for him?”

Stephen gave him an even look. “He's a person of interest in the murder of a street kid in south Mumbai.”

“A suspect?”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Not at the moment. ...would that be unsurprising?”

“I wish I could say that it wouldn't.  From what I've heard, anyway.” Da Silva sighed dramatically. “The staff and the other children all seemed to have been at least a little afraid of Matthew.”  Confidentially, “The boy's eyes were never quite right, you see.”

“I see,” said Stephen, who didn’t give a fuck. “I'd like an answer to the other questions, then.”

The priest spread his hands in a helpless gesture.  “I would be pleased to help you, if I could.  Mary disappeared shortly after she left us.  It's sad, but it happens fairly often.”

Stephen stiffened. Disappeared? “How long ago had she aged out?” Fucking hell... not another...

Da Silva gave him a distinctly unfriendly look, probably for the term. “Mary left Hands of Mercy around eight months ago, as I understand it.  We helped her secure a factory job in Nasik and a place to stay until she could afford something of her own.” He smiled benevolently. “They may not have much, but it's theirs, and many of our children grow into fine citizens.”

“I’m sure,” Stephen replied. It sounded like the girl was a prime candidate for trafficking. Which, if that happened, meant Matthew might have been taken himself after all, and that would give him a better lead than he’d had in a while. “You wouldn't happen to have any pictures of either of them on file, would you? For identification purposes.”

Da Silva blinked slowly at him, but nodded. “Of course.  They're somewhat outdated, of course.” He went over to a filing cabinet, opening a drawer. “They grow so quickly at that age, it's hard to keep up.” And then he chuckled in an avuncular, wink-wink-nudge-nudge sort of fashion, as if a) Stephen was old enough to be anyone’s uncle, and b) he’d want to engage in uncle-bonding with Mr ONGC if he was. He came back with a couple of files, opening them and turning them so Stephen could look at the images. “Shame, they were such lovely children. Faces like angels, both of them.”

They really were, both of them, slim and pretty, with the fair skin, ebony hair and exotic green eyes that some Kashmiris got, but there was something in their expressions that simply didn’t match the smiles on their faces. Both in their mid-teens, though, almost as if more recent images had been removed from the files to avoid easy identification. “Yes, they’re both very good-looking.”

“The staff said that Matthew became quite despondent when his sister left.”

“Was he not still in contact with her?”

Da Silva sighed sadly, pressing his lips together in a gesture of sympathy. “They say she came back to see him, just after she started at the factory, but only the once. He told one of the sisters that she'd promised to come back for him.  But they'd been separated for a long time.  She may have met someone, or decided that she couldn't take on the responsibility of caring for Matthew.  It wouldn't be the first time that kind of thing has happened.”

“Of course it wouldn't,” Stephen said pointedly, and leaned back, trying to look disappointed. “Well, it seems that tracking her down might be the key. Is it possible that he confided something about his plans to run away to Father Ferreira, considering the timing of his escape?”

Da Silva frowned a little, and eventually shook his head. “As I said, I didn't know the boy well, but the sisters are very consistent in their characterisation of him as being entirely self-contained outside of his extremely close relationship with his sister.”

Well, fuck. That was a dead-end, then. If the kid had run before Ferreira’s death, he might have suspected a double trafficking, but as it was, there wasn’t anything he could do with this. It had seemed so convenient, the boy going missing so soon after Ferreira’s death-

Fuck.

Maybe it wasn’t just convenient. Ferreira dying right before Darr ran off? Maybe he overheard something. Maybe Ferreira was offed for some reason.

Or. Maybe. Fucking hell.

It couldn’t be, though. There was no fucking way. But maybe “Mary” hadn’t been trafficked. Maybe she’d just found out what Ferreira was up to and...killed him?  Been Dealt With?  Gotten him Dealt With?  Or perhaps Ferreria had been blocking her attempts to take custody of her brother, maybe she’d just rescued “Matthew”, which was still illegal considering he was officially a ward of the state. Or, if the sister _had_  disappeared and Darr had figured or found out Ferreira was behind it...

Again, the continuing theme: Fuck.

Stephen leaned back in his chair, trying manfully to keep his various thoughts and feelings off his face. “Well. I was hoping someone here would know him well, but I guess that's a dead end, if he was a loner.” He took a deep breath, trying to figure out what else he knew, what else he needed to know. “Oh, yes. I was wondering if I could trouble you for his birth name, in case he's trying to use an alias. I assume he converted while here, of course, given his last name.”

Da Silva gave him a cold smile, clearly unimpressed with what Stephen had implied. “Of course, Sub-Inspector.  His previous name was Aasif.”

Stephen nodded. “And his sister?”

Da Silva was still smiling at him, though at this point it was as much baring of teeth as anything. Probably a bad sign, if Stephen needed him for more information. “Nafiza.”

“Thank you, Father.” Stephen hesitated for a second, knowing this question would sound odd. But hell, it was an outside shot, anyway. “...if it's not too odd a question, how tall would you say Matthew was?” There. He’d Christian named the kid. Hopefully he wouldn't get fed more bullshit thanks to that.

Da Silva blinked. “He was around five-foot-nine, I believe.  Of course I didn't measure the boy-” another All Grown Ups Here chuckle  “And kids at that age...for all I know he could have shot up six inches since then, hm?”

Stephen snorted, going with the joke, because the last thing he needed was a willing source clamming up because he’d been impolite. (And he was nice, damn it. As nice as anyone ever deserved, anyway.) “I hope not, for his sake, if he ever wants to ride a bus.” Five foot nine, that placed him in the right height range, according to the wounds of the warehouse victims.

The priest chuckled again, nodding in a chummy kind of way, entirely too pleased with Stephen’s joke.  “Just so, just so.”

Guhar was goggling at Stephen, but he ignored it  as he stood up, grinning, though it felt like baring his teeth, really. “Well, that's really all I needed to know, Father. I hope I can find him soon. Sorry for the trouble. Let’s go, Irani.”

Guhar and da Silva stood too, both looking very pleased this was over. “No trouble at all, Sub-Inspector Gonsalves,” da Silva slicked (and fuck, Stephen hadn’t really thought to use that as a verb before its anthropomorphic form had decided to creep at him), “As I said, always happy to be of assistance.  Have a safe drive back to the city.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wall of denial finally falls; Stephen is unprepared, and Guhar is unrepentant.

It was late when they finally left Hand of Mercy, and the notebook in Guhar’s pocket felt heavy, as if the names he’d written in it had actual weight.  It was a long few minutes while Stephen got the car turned around and headed down the long drive to the main highway; both of them were silent, either chewing on what they’d learned, or maybe out of a superstitious desire to be well away before they made it real by discussing it.

“So, we’ve got a name,” Stephen ventured as he accelerated, the dark landscape sliding past the windows.  “Two names, rather.”

Guhar sighed, finally beginning to shake off the weird discomfort that this whole meeting had given him.  “Yeah, now all we have to do is find this Matthew-slash-Aasif kid.  No problem.”  Except that it would be, and they both knew it.  He was one kid among millions, unknown and uncared-for, wanting to hide and with a pretty huge head-start.

“Yeah,” Stephen answered grimly, “‘angel-faced teenager’.  Should be easy to find.  It’s not like the city’s got a youthful population or anything.”  After a moment, he burst out, “And I still can’t fucking believe the pretext turned out to be fucking _text_.”  Guhar couldn’t help but smile once again at the strange angles Stephen tended to choose for his rage.

“We’ll find him,” Guhar said quietly.  “Mostly because you’re stubborn like that, but still.”

Stephen snorted at that, a wry twisting at the corner of his mouth.  “Stubborn isn't going to do me a damn bit of good. If he did it - if he killed them, or even if he was part of a group that killed them - he's disappeared by now. We've got no witnesses, no idea if he even got out of the water, let alone where, and frankly, at this point I don't even know why _he's_  the one I'm hunting, since he seems to be the only person in this fucking clusterfuck with his head even partially removed from his rectum.”

“Yeah.  But he’s all we’ve got at this point.  I’ll start looking into that Shankar guy in the morning.  I think Gaish was right about him.”

The engine hummed a little higher as Stephen pressed the gas pedal down.  “If he’s not involved, I’ll eat my hair.”

“No,” Guhar protested, the ridiculous nature of that statement striking him a bit too late to stop himself, and he finished lamely, “I like your hair.”  He waited for Stephen to give him shit for being stupid, already slouching because he’d deserve it, this time.  It didn’t come, though, save the slow swivel of Stephen’s head to give him a very flat look.  It was a weird and uncomfortable moment, and perhaps that was why Guhar lost his mind.  “It’s unusual here,” he said and reached up to run a blond lock between his finger and thumb, answering a question he’d had since the first time he’d met Stephen: it was as soft as it looked.  “It’s pretty.”

After a moment that felt like forever, Stephen pulled away with a huff.  “What, were you raised by wolves?  Don’t just grab people’s hair!”

Guhar pulled back, too.  “Sorry.”  He curled his hands in his lap, looking out at the highway.  “But it _is_  pretty.”

“...it’s just hair,” Stephen muttered.  “So remind me again, are you on shift tomorrow?

“Nope.”

“Fine. I'll just drop you off home. Try and get some rest, and clock in early Friday.”

_Shit._   “Churchgate’s fine,” Guhar protested, hoping Stephen wouldn’t insist.

“You said you live near Colaba. The buses won't be frequent at this hour.”  Stephen was frowning, and that wasn’t a good sign.  It had been a weird day, which never helped when it came to Stephen being weird himself, and they’d just had a Thing...Guhar was not hopeful that he would win this.

“That’s all right.  I like to run.”  That one had worked before.  Of course, before had always been well before midnight.

“It’s fine,”  Stephen nearly growled, and there was an unmistakable finality in his tone.  “Just tell me which way to go.”  Guhar slumped in his seat a little bit, sheepish and upset that he’d lost.  Now Stephen was going to know things, and that would change everything.  It always did, and there was nothing he could do about it.  If he made a fuss, it would only make Stephen suspicious, or curious, or both.

Fine.

“Okay, but you have to promise you won’t be weird at me.”  Guhar backed this up with a tiny glare.

Stephen gave him a puzzled look.  “...what, you weren’t really raised by wolves, were you?”

“No,” Guhar answered quietly, looking out the side window, “I was raised by my aunt.  Well, not really my aunt.  She adopted me, but I was already used to calling her ‘Auntie’, so I just kept calling her that.”

“Why would I find that weird?”  The puzzled look grew deeper, and Stephen graced Guhar with the full force of it.  “You know I was adopted.”  

Guhar shook his head and looked back out the window.  “Never mind.  Are you going in tomorrow? 'Cause I figured I'd just do some cruising around on the web and see what I could dig up.”

“I'm technically off. Might do some paperwork on my own time, but I'm not going in.”

Ignoring the lingering weirdness as well as he could, Guhar turned back to Stephen.  “Okay.  You want to meet for lunch or something?”  He’d gotten used to spending most of his days with Stephen, and most of his time away from him thinking about the Colaba case and the warehouse.  Now and then Stephen would reward him with a smile or a softer look that Guhar was probably imagining, but that he liked, anyway.  Besides, if they had a meeting set up before Stephen saw, maybe he could fix it.

“I’m not hauling my ass all the way into town to feed you.”  Guhar couldn’t quite stop himself scowling a little bit, because no one had asked Stephen or anyone else to feed him, but it would be both ungrateful and impolite to say so.  A few moments passed in silence, and Guhar was beginning to get worried by the time Stephen looked at him and sighed heavily.  “...there’s a decent Udipi joint called RK’s, in Bandra, near my house.  I was planning to go there anyway.”

Guhar grinned.  “Okay!  I can be there at the usual time, if that’s all right.”

“Sounds good,” Stephen answered with a nod, though his expression was a little odd.

“Good.”  Guhar leaned his head back against the seat, grinning hugely.  “I like-”  he restrained himself from reaching for Stephen’s hair again, “...working with you.”

Stephen blinked.  Looked at Guhar.  Blinked some more.  “Are you _flirting_  with me?”

Well, there was that denial bubble busted, then, and Guhar didn’t feel all that attached to making another one.  Taking a chance, he shrugged.  “Would you be mad if I was?”

“...I’m a _cop,_ ” Stephen spluttered, “... _you’re_  a cop.  You can’t just _flirt_  with cops.”  He was still blinking a lot, Guhar noticed.

“Why not?”  He was genuinely puzzled by this, since he knew that more than one of the guys in their station were quite definitely partnered up with other cops.  Stephen’s answer was, apparently, to drive with a vengeance.  Guhar waited for a few moments, then prodded, “Stephen?”

“What.”  It wasn’t really a question.  Guhar waited some more, as loudly as he could manage.  “What?!”

Trying to hide his amusement, Guhar clarified, “Why can’t I flirt with cops?”

Over the past couple of months, Guhar had become familiar with all of Stephen’s many sounds of frustration.  Or so he’d thought.  “Because you’re a cop?  A _mal_ e cop.”

Guhar nodded slowly and considered that for a few moments.  And then the question occurred to him.  “So...any cops, or just male cops?”

“Any cops,” Stephen snapped back instantly.  “No flirting with cops.  Ever.”

Well, that was hardly fair.  Guhar’s face scrunched up, a habit he’d been trying to break, and to which he returned when he was caught off-guard.  Or pissy, which was both rare and exactly where he was currently headed.  “All right, then, what about Sawarkar?  His girlfriend is a cop.”

Stephen’s lips pressed into a thin line.  “We’re not discussing Sawarkar’s ugly-bumping habits.”

“So is his boyfriend.”  The lips pretty much just disappeared at that point.

“And until you told me, I had plausible deniability on that, so thank you.  Thank you very much.”

They were well inside the city, now, though Stephen was still driving at highway speed, light spilling into the car and fading, sliding over and under like waves licking at the shore.  After a moment, “So, why can’t I flirt with you?”

It took Stephen a moment to find the answer to that.  “Because it’s inappropriate.”

“How?  Are you straight?”  Guhar was giving him the full-on stare by this point, pinning Stephen with it since he was captive, anyway.  If he let this chance go, he might not ever get another.

“I’m your boss.”

Guhar couldn’t not grin.  “That’s a ‘no’, then”  

The waves of light moved faster, now, Stephen resolutely looking out the windshield rather than even glancing to Guhar, moving on as though that point was not only not a point, but not a thing that had happened, at all.  “And even if I weren’t straight, it’d still be inappropriate because I’m your boss.”

That felt a lot like beginning to win, so Guhar pressed a little bit, “And if you weren’t my boss?”

“That’s not even relevant.  Which way do I go from here?”

Quietly, almost absently, Guhar said, “NCPA Marg,” and moved on.  “And it could be relevant.”

Stephen was not moving on with him.  “NCPA Marg?  What do you...I told you you’re not going running at this time of night.”

Frustrated with the lack of response, a little impatient and rather a lot worried, Guhar almost snapped, “I live there.”  Which was what finally got Stephen to look at him again. Well, ‘gape’ was a more appropriate word, really.   _Great_.

“What, seriously?”  Stephen asked as he turned the corner onto his street, and Guhar slumped a bit in his seat.  He knew that tone, that look entirely too well.  This was it. Stephen wasn’t ever going to see him the same way again, and that would be that.

“Yes, seriously.”  He went back to looking out the passenger window, because there wasn’t much point in pressing the rest of the conversation, now.  From here on out things would be different, and somehow that was way more scary than flirting with his boss could ever be.

Stephen’s voice floated across the small space, “Which building?”

“Horizon Terrace,” Guhar answered the glass.

“That one?!”

Hunching up even smaller in the seat, he sighed, “Yes.”  There was a long, long moment of what felt a lot like stunned silence before Stephen’s mind nearly audibly snapped.

 “I’ve been buying you lunch for _weeks_.”

Well, that did make Guhar smile, because how could he not?  His voice was low and warm with his gratitude for that, “Yeah, that was really nice of you.”

Another snap, this one branching out to include an arm.  “I thought you were broke, you little shit!”

That, somehow, was just too much, with Guhar already feeling out of sorts, the accusation in it stinging, and he snapped  back, “Well I never told you that!”  Okay, he’d never thought about it deeply enough to figure out that maybe that was why everyone was so nice to him, that way, or that Stephen was trying to help him out because he thought he needed it, instead of to make up for being a prick so much of the time, but still.

Stephen was practically flailing by this point, one hand gesticulating while he steered with the other.  “You dress down, and you’re always fucking hungry, and you run home instead of getting bus rides!”

Guhar sighed at the reasoning, because it was rational, and still bothersome.  “I’m in uniform, I just eat lots, and I like running!”  His building loomed in front of them, embarrassingly ornate, and Stephen seemed to put aside the argument in favour of parking.  For a moment.

“And this is your house,” he said, looking out at it.  “If you're filthy rich, what the fuck are you doing being a cop?

Guhar had to force his face to unscrunch again.  “Only one floor is my house, and I like people.”  Quietly, he added, “I want to help.”

Again, Stephen’s head swiveled back to Guhar, almost comically slowly.  “You became a cop.  To _help people._ ”  Relief flooded him, glad that Stephen seemed to understand, and he nodded.  Stephen’s head tilted a little bit, a crease appearing between his brows.  He dropped his head to the steering wheel, shoulders beginning to shake with quiet laughter, and Guhar’s relief drained away.  So much for understanding, then.

“Yeah, okay, laugh.” he said, and he could hear the defeat in his own voice.  He didn’t like that.  “I guess you have some kind of Deep Personal Reason or something, but I don’t.  And if no one does it to help, then no one gets helped.”  That was it.  All he had to say, and he figured he was about as ready to let this go as he was going to get.

Lifting his head, Stephen gave Guhar a long, puzzled kind of look, and his voice was barely more than a murmur as he asked, “How are you even real?”  

Now, that felt familiar, and comforting.  He shrugged.  “Auntie asks me that, too.”  And okay, that was worth one last shot at saving this thing he’d found, Stephen and the odd little island of being that they had built together from the footing of a dead case.  He wasn’t sure if he should ask, now, but his mouth was moving before he could really even decide.  “You want to come in?”  And because it was done now, he added hopefully, “I have coffee.”

Stephen blinked at him a few more times and, amazingly, said, “...all right.”

“Okay,” Guhar grinned just about fit to break his face. “Cool.”  Before Stephen could reconsider, Guhar was outside the car and waiting for him to catch up.

It took a few moments, Stephen shaking his head as he opened the car door to follow.  He looked up at the building one more time, then back to Guhar.  “You own a whole floor of this building?”

“Actually,” Guhar said, turning to lead Stephen into the building (by as little as possible, since that was bound to make his usual issue with following that much worse), “Auntie owns it.  She doesn’t spend much time here, though, so we thought it would be a waste for me to get my own place.”  He waved to the gurkha at the desk and got one back, no other acknowledgment of the man trailing in after him, discreet as always, and as he was handsomely paid to be.  Stephen made a small sound behind him, but he carried on as if he hadn’t heard, anxious to be in the apartment.  Not that that had anything to do with being alone with Stephen or anything.

Once the elevator doors closed, Stephen suffered a relapse of the side-eye he’d been giving Guhar in the car.  “this isn’t more flirting, is it?”

Guhar gave him an even look.  “You said not to.”

Stephen’s nod was Very Firm.  “Yes.”

Returning the nod, if more slowly, Guhar couldn’t resist asking, “So, what if it was?”  For a second he wondered if Stephen’s lips had just decided to go on vacation.

“I”m your _boss._   And a cop.  Also, what are you, sixteen?”

Well, that just about did it.  Guhar’s face flattened out in a way that felt impressive even to him.  “I’m twenty-five.”  He held out his arms to indicate everything around them.  “And does it look like I need this job?”  This piece of logic earned him a small, incoherent sound of...frustration?  Possible nascent rage?  Guhar couldn’t tell, which was mildly bothersome.  He nodded.  “You got anything besides appearances, a non-existent power differential, and age?”

“I could get fired,” Stephen tried gamely, then semi-triumphantly, “You could get fired.”

Guhar shrugged and grinned.  “I promise to keep you, if I get you fired?”  After a very long silence during which Stephen seemed to be trying earnestly to blink his eyeballs right out of existence, Guhar nudged him with an elbow.  “C’mon, it was a joke.”

Stephen spluttered, “It’s not funny!”  He had an almost pained look for a second, and he cleared his throat.  Guhar hung his head a bit, but he couldn’t stop smiling, and he didn’t apologise, because for all the excuses Stephen had offered up, he hadn’t said word one about the one thing that would make a difference to Guhar.  

The elevator slid to a smooth halt, the doors sliding open onto the small foyer/hallway that separated it from the penthouse apartment.  “Come on,” he said quietly, and stepped out to lead Stephen into his home.

Once the door was closed behind them, Guhar started to relax.  It was all done, now, Stephen could see the large, roomy space and the rich furnishings that Auntie preferred, could feel the drop in temperature from the central air conditioning and look out at the view of the lights that ran around the edge of Backbay at night.  If Stephen was going to get weird about the money, he didn’t need anything more.  It seemed all right, so far, but Guhar knew better than to assume that it was going to stay that way.  

He dropped his keys into the bowl that sat stop the little table by the door.  “You want coffee?” he asked, as if Stephen wasn’t failing not to goggle at the apartment.  Guhar was used that.  “I’ve got wine, too, if you promise not to think I’m trying to take advantage.”  To his delight, Stephen immediately stopped paying attention to the apartment and gave Guhar an actual little grin.

“Yeah, seems like your M.O.”  

And that was an actual joke.  Guhar was impressed.  He returned the smile and nodded, slipping past Stephen to head for the liquor cabinet behind the bar and the well-stocked wine rack behind one glass door.  A few seconds to find the bottle he wanted, a few more for glasses, and Guhar headed toward the hallway on the far side of the room.  “Right,” he said, beckoning Stephen with an arm, “my room’s this way.”  He trotted down the hall, much less worried about leading, this time; this was his ground, after all.  “I pretty much live in there, so it’s a lot more comfortable,” Guhar explained as they neared his door.  “Don’t worry, it’s got couches and stuff.”  He turned to give Stephen a little grin and pushed the door open, standing back to let Stephen go in first.

“I’m not _worried,_ ”  Stephen huffed on his way past, and Guhar had to choke back a chuckle as he followed Stephen inside.  

He spent the next couple of minutes getting things together, opening the wine and pouring, letting Stephen have a relatively unobserved moment to take in the room.  There were no divisions, save those made by the lines of furniture and area rugs, though the impression was definitely of two different rooms.  The far side held Guhar’s bed, obscenely large and cradled in a four-poster frame with spindled head- and footboards of rich hardwood, night tables and a wardrobe to match, and a divan near ridiculously tall french-door style windows.  Guhar took off his handcuffs and night stick and put them on a side table, then sat down on the deep burgundy couch facing a cabinet that housed a tv and a rat’s nest of wires and consoles and media devices.  The table was of the same wood as the bed, inlaid in the same Mughal-inspired pattern.  He held up a glass for Stephen.  “Have a seat.”

Stephen pulled himself back from inspecting the room (the look on his face left Guhar no choice but to think of it that way), and moved to the couch, taking the glass from Guhar as he sat.  A dilated moment passed silently between them before Stephen cleared his throat and said, “So.”  

The word hung between them while Stephen shifted a little and Guhar took a sip of his wine.  Well, gulp, really, because he just wasn’t good at small mouth things, and Auntie wasn’t here to disapprove at him.  “So,” he picked up, finally figuring that there wasn’t anything more forthcoming and he really just couldn’t leave it alone any longer, “you still haven’t told me something.”  

Stephen looked suspiciously at him over the rim of his glass.  “What’s that?”

Suddenly, there were butterflies.  In Guhar’s stomach.  Unwanted and after a second, unheeded.  This was it: all his cards were on the table now, from his best to his worst traits to his money, and he was just going to have to go for it or let it drop.  “All you have to say is that you’re not interested.  Tell me that you don’t like me that way, and you won’t have to wonder if I’m flirting with you, ‘cause I won’t be.”  Stephen stiffened, and Guhar’s butterflies started in on a full Bollywood number, convinced that he was about to be kindly dropped on his romantic ass.

“Of course I don’t like you flirting with me. You're annoying, you eat like a horse and you _bop_  at me.”  

Guhar’s stomach tightened at the words, horrified that he’d...wait.  He turned that over in his head for a moment, then looked evenly at Stephen, much calmer now, because, “That’s not what I asked.”  

Stephen’s response to that was to drink a lot of his wine; Guhar was right.  Stephen was a master of not-lying, and that was _not_ a denial of attraction.  Guhar was not inexperienced, and this left him with an interesting dilemma: he was not-inexperienced to the point of having developed a kind of style, and what was going on with Stephen made using it impossible.  Stephen was a siege, if ever Guhar had seen one (and he had, he’d just never been interested enough to take the chance before), and that meant treading on lines he generally preferred to keep at a nice, safe distance.  But Stephen was so awesome, and smart and attractive, and Guhar really wanted to give this thing a shot, so fine.  He would step on the lines.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what,” Guhar said, carefully keeping his voice soft.  “If you don’t tell me that you don’t like me that way in the next...ten seconds, I’m going to kiss you.  That way you don’t have to say you want me to.”  He tried a tiny smile and started silently counting.

Stephen went still for a long moment, and Guhar watched carefully as he seemed to run a course of thoughts very rapidly, none of which was anything that Guhar could actually track by his expression.  Five...six...seven...Stephen took a breath, lips parting, and Guhar braced himself for words that never materialised.  The time limit came and went, Guhar deliberately leaving extra space while Stephen still didn’t speak.  Thirteen...fourteen...fifteen...he reached up to comb his fingers into Stephen’s hair, holding his gaze as he leaned in almost close enough.  “One word, Stephen.  Say no, and I won’t.”

Frozen, staring into Guhar’s eyes, Stephen breathed, “Damn it, Guhar...”

Guhar smiled, softly, and he whispered almost against Stephen’s lips, “That’s not ‘no’.”  The butterflies started up another number in his belly, and Guhar moved to claim Stephen’s mouth with his own.  He meant it to be quick and gentle, but he’d been waiting for weeks and he just couldn’t find the will to stop.  Certainly not with Stephen sliding a hand into his hair and kissing him back.  

It took some time, but Guhar’s front brain finally managed to convince the rest of him to release Stephen’s mouth; he pulled back a little bit, enough to catch Stephen’s gaze again, one question on quick breath, “Yes?”  He needed to hear that word, needed to know that Stephen wanted this as much as he did.  

Guhar never got it, though; Stephen’s answer a firm nod and to pull him back in for another kiss.  Well, he was going to just have to go with that being good enough.  There was fumbling to put wine glasses down, and then Stephen’s hands on him, tugging at his shirt, gripping his hair tightly and oh, the taste of him, as good as Guhar had ever imagined.  Weeks of being close, smelling the scent of Stephen in that small office, seeing him looking all pretty and all the things that he didn’t seem to ever let anyone else see...Guhar had been wanting for what felt like forever.

Stephen’s hand was on Guhar’s shoulder, gripping him tightly, fingers fumbling at buttons, and Guhar had to restrain himself from just climbing up onto Stephen’s lap for some serious groping.  Instead, he just wrapped an arm around Stephen’s waist and pulled him closer, shifting himself in, too, pressing against him.  Stephen shivered under his touch, a small moan that Guhar could feel more than hear, and fuck it was good to feel Stephen responding to him like that.  Still, there was an urgency in the way Stephen kissed and touched him, a kind of frantic edge that told Guhar that not only was this not a thing that Stephen did often, it was probably not a thing that he did much at all.  

That was all right.  Flattering, even, but it did mean that he was going to have to be careful.  And good.  Not that he had any doubts about himself, but he’d sooner eat his own feet than let Stephen regret this, whatever happened afterward.

Well, step one was probably not fucking on the couch.

Guhar broke the kiss with a small sound of displeasure, echoed rather more insistently by Stephen.  He strung a little trail of kisses along Stephen’s jaw, tugging at his shirt a little as he murmured, “Let’s go to the bed,” in his ear.  He pulled back to get the response, and Stephen’s nod still looked a little shocked, so Guhar stood up, taking Stephen’s hand and pulling him up, too.  He was ridiculously light, which Guhar tucked away for later concern.  For now, there was the pressing issue of getting Stephen to a nice, soft, horizontal surface.

He grinned at the feel of Stephen’s fingers plucking his shirt out of his pants as they walked., and he muffled even the thought of how cute that was, in case Stephen could sense it, somehow.  Guhar wrapped his arms around Stephen’s waist and stepped in close, going for a gentler kiss this time as he pulled Stephen’s handcuffs from his belt (he’d left his truncheon in the car, back at Mercy).  Probably not very sexy to go lying on them, after all.  Fuck, though for a guy who didn’t seem to be all that comfortable with this, Stephen could kiss, all hunger and exploration and taking over every time.  It was good to feel so wanted by someone who knew him so well.  

There were fingers in his hair again, and he couldn’t resist reaching for Stephen’s, so pretty and light, like silk in his hand.  Stephen tasted good, light sting of salt on his tongue from the heat of the day, his scent stronger now, and it was almost entirely unique to still smell good to him with that.  Guhar pressed the hand holding the cuffs to Stephen’s ass, grinding against him, and smiled for the little gasp it elicited.  He closed his eyes, drifting for a while on the little shivers that slipped down his spine from the touch of Stephen’s mouth on his neck, the fingers exploring his stomach, teasingly close to his belt, and the pleasing press of Stephen’s cock against his hip.  

Those little kisses and nips moved back up the length of his neck, and he turned his head for to catch Stephen’s mouth, moving with his tugging back toward the bed.  After a long moment of just enjoying having Stephen trapped,even just that little bit, he pulled away and gave him a wicked little grin before pressing a hand to Stephen’s chest and pushing him firmly back.  Stephen went with it easily enough, and Guhar waited exactly long enough for him to move around to put his head on the pillow, then climbed up after him, one leg between Stephen’s to rock against him as he claimed another kiss.  

Hands slipped over the backs of Guhar’s thighs and up to cup his ass, pulling him in while Stephen writhed up against him with a low moan that went straight to Guhar’s cock.  Teeth pinched his lip lightly, and Stephen made a low sound in his throat as he wrapped a leg around Guhar’s thigh and rocked under him.  “...I won’t bottom,” he murmured, but didn’t stop moving.

It was a pure statement, not a request, but it still sounded uncertain, and Guhar wasn’t sure if he should be bothered by the fact that Stephen felt a need to sound like that, or if it was just cute.  He settled on both, but cute wasn’t going to stop Stephen in his tracks, so he smiled softly at him and pressed in for another kiss, murmuring against his lips, “‘S’all right.”  Still, Stephen was obviously at least a little bit nervous, so Guhar reined himself in some, trying not to move too quickly or be too insistent when he rocked against that pretty, pretty body.

Guhar leaned on the hand that still held the cuffs, warmed by his skin so he hadn’t noticed until he was using the other hand to open the buttons of Stephen’s shirt while he nipped and licked and kissed Stephen’s lovely throat, breathing him in.  Stephen slowed a little under him, his kisses and touch becoming a little tentative when Guhar finished with the buttons and pushed the fabric away to run his hand over Stephen’s side.  It passed quickly enough, Stephen’s fingers sliding under Guhar’s shirt, pushing it up to slip over the length of his spine, making him arch and shiver against Stephen’s body while the other hand made for Guhar’s belt.

Stephen’s body was smooth, lightly muscled and slim, skin sliding under Guhar’s fingers as he explored, side, chest, abdomen, side, tucking under Stephen to pull him up a little, forcing him to arch so Guhar could feel it, rocking hard against him with a low moan of appreciation.  The belt fell open and Stephen attacked the fastenings of his pants, next.  He gave a low growl of frustration when they resisted for a moment, shifting to a huff of triumph that made Guhar smile when he could slip inside and slide fingertips along the length of Guhar’s cock through his shorts.  

A quick, light kiss and Guhar straightened to his knees to peel his shirt off, tossing it to the floor beside the bed and taking a moment to truly appreciate the sight of Stephen, half undressed, golden and deliciously messy in his bed.  “So fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, and even if just for this moment, _all his_.  The thought was too much to take from so far away, so he obeyed the dawning pissy on Stephen’s face, falling on him again for a purely greedy kiss that Stephen returned eagerly, nails biting into Guhar’s side.

Well, that was about all the invitation Guhar could ask for, ducking his head to lay little kisses and licks and bites down Stephen’s throat, leaning on one elbow in order to attack Stephen’s belt and pants.  Guhar licked at a lovely collarbone as he slipped his hand under fabric, a soft sound of surprise and appreciation for the fact that Stephen wasn’t wearing underwear.  That little fact was going to _haunt_  him at work, now, along with the memory of the way it felt to wrap his hand around Stephen’s hard cock, and to rock into his grip, in turn.

Shifting down a little - but not far enough to get out of Stephen’s reach, thanks - Guhar began to explore his chest, the slight rise and fall of ribs under skin and the softer feel of muscle, taste of Stephen on his tongue again, strangely addicting.  Guhar pressed a soft sound of appreciation to Stephen’s skin with a smile for those sweet little moans and the way Stephen was moving against his hand, pleased as hell by it.  Long fingers threaded into his hair and curled there, an excitingly changeable not-grip, as Stephen asked quietly, “What are you doing?”

Well, that couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like.  Guhar paused (which Stephen briefly protested), hovering over Stephen’s skin to look up at him.  “What?”

Stephen huffed, took a long breath, and the second attempt tumbled from him in a rush.  “What are you planning to do?”  

Well, now that was a whole different deal, wasn’t it?  Guhar pushed himself up and leaned in for a quick, soft kiss.  “Just...hush.”  He was still stroking Stephen slowly, holding his gaze steadily.  “Relax and let me take care of you,” he said gently.  

“But-” Stephen started, frowning a little, but he was still squirming into Guhar’s grip.

Guhar shifted his weight a little bit, and a thought wandered through his mind.  “Can you trust me to do that, Stephen?” he asked, and there was a long moment where Guhar began to gather himself for an answer he wouldn’t like, just in case.  Stephen stared at him and, after what felt like a very long time, nodded.  Guhar practically beamed at him, but at as low a wattage as he could manage, given that response, kissing Stephen again, brief and gentle.  

Reluctantly releasing Stephen, Guhar shifted to brace himself on his other arm, staying close as he reached out to close one of the cuffs around Stephen’s wrist.  He could feel Stephen looking at him, could practically hear the blinking, even, but he didn’t think it was safe to stop just yet.  Guhar shifted again, moving to straddle Stephen’s body and kneeling up a little so he could tug Stephen’s hand up toward the headboard and pass the free cuff around one of the spindles.  He tugged Stephen’s other hand up and pressed the metal to his wrist, encircling it without clicking the cuff closed.  Guhar looked down at Stephen, and Stephen looked back up at him, silent.

“Yes?” Guhar asked.

“ _Yes,_ ”  Stephen answered.

Guhar slid the cuff home and exhaled relief.  It was what Stephen needed, he knew that - to be able to let himself let go on even such a flimsy excuse - but that didn’t mean it was what he would want.  Still, Guhar had checked, had made sure he heard the word this time, and seen that look in Stephen’s eyes, desire and yes, a little bit of fear, but also the fierce certainty that had sounded in that ‘yes’.  He felt more than a little bit honoured by that.

Slithering back down over Stephen’s body, Guhar settled down pressed to his chest and kissed him, deep and hungry.  Okay, and the cuffs were definitely the right move, judging by the way Stephen was writhing under him and the ferocity of his kiss.  Guhar loosed a low sound of approval and gratification against Stephen’s mouth, letting him take control, letting him feel the contrast between it and the helplessness of being handcuffed and held down under Guhar’s body.  

He stayed there for a long time, enjoying the desperate hunger Stephen was feeding him, rolling around in it until he couldn’t take the anticipation anymore and broke away with a huge grin.  Leaning over to the night table, Guhar grabbed his bottle of lube and a condom, tossing them to the bed beside Stephen and moved to kneel between his legs.

“Ch.  Have some shame about it, for fuck’s sake.”

Guhar looked at him, puzzled.  “About what?”

Stephen just huffed and gave him one of those incredibly flat looks.  “Never mind.”  Guhar shrugged and pushed his pants down over his hips, well aware of Stephen watching him hungrily as he sat to take them off and let them drop beside the bed with his shirt.  Coming back, Guhar shifted Stephen’s legs together and straddled his calves, then reached up to take hold of the waist of his pants and tugged them down to mid-thigh, slowly enough to make Stephen a little bit crazy and to tease himself with the gradual appearance of slim hips and Stephen’s lovely cock, pleasingly hard for him.  The tinkle of the belt buckle as it moved was weirdly sexy, a thing Guhar had never considered before, and which would probably now forever be a Thing.

Rising back to his knees, Guhar allowed himself the indulgence of just looking at Stephen, blond hair against the dark fabric of his pillow, restrained and half-undressed, the khaki of his police uniform setting off his skin, framing him for Guhar’s sight.  He was fucking beautiful was what he was, and Guhar felt a thrill in his belly that was entirely new to him as he took it all in.  It left him open to Stephen’s gaze, too, and he could feel it like a physical touch, sliding over him hungrily.  

Guhar moved up a little, then leaned over on one hand, grinning madly at him before kissing him again, long and slow, refusing to get caught up in Stephen’s urgency.  He was restrained, after all, and finally in Guhar’s bed; this was the perfect (and he didn’t like to think of the possibility of only) chance to explore, and he intended to take it.  He chuckled against Stephen’s throat for the intensely annoyed protest when Guhar pulled away, tasting him there and everywhere else as he made a slow progress down Stephen’s body with his mouth and one hand.  The dip under Stephen’s collarbone again, the expense of his chest, experimental swipe of his tongue over a nipple that got him a moan and a satisfyingly frustrated growl for his efforts.  Fingers slipped over skin, the jut of prominent ribs and the hollow of Stephen’s abdomen, stretched out by the restraints that held him fast to the headboard; it was amazing to feel it, to taste and touch and take it all for himself.

Stephen was growing impatient by the time Guhar’s tongue slid down one side of his navel, and Guhar grinned as he struggled against the handcuffs, deeply pleased by the need implicit in it.  He’d have stopped in a heartbeat if Stephen had told him to, but since he didn’t, Guhar got to revel in how much he clearly wanted to touch.  And that he couldn’t.  It was intoxicating to have Stephen here like this, vulnerable in a way he never was, and all for him.  Guhar explored the hollow of Stephen’s hip, a kiss and a slow lick that had Stephen writhing and swearing under his breath, and that was enough.

He let Stephen rest for a long moment, though he didn’t move away, waiting for the insistence of Stephen’s movements to die down a little bit, watching him until he grew almost completely still and looked down at Guhar.  Crouched low over Stephen’s legs and holding his gaze, Guhar grinned and licked a slow line over the length of Stephen’s cock, base to tip.  Stephen’s breath caught and his hips hitched but he didn’t look away, and Guhar rewarded him by taking that beautiful cock into his mouth, fast and deep, a shock of lust running through him for his name, broken on Stephen’s moan.

Guhar curled a hand around the base of Stephen’s cock and set a quick pace, sucking Stephen with skill and care, and he still couldn’t believe the taste of Stephen’s skin.  Like his scent and his mouth, it was addicting, perfect, and Guhar loved it.  He reached out with one hand to snag the lube he’d put on the bed, shifting to a slow stroke with his mouth while he used both hands to slick the fingers of one hand.  He could hear Stephen, swearing under his breath again, but when he glanced up, Stephen’s gaze was on him, locked and greedy, and fuck if that didn’t just please the hell out of him.  

He paused once the bottle was closed and away again, to catch and hold Stephen’s gaze for a moment as he adjusted his knees further apart and reached behind himself and down, slowly to make sure Stephen saw.  Understanding dawned in those pretty eyes of his, and Guhar picked up again, hand following mouth over the length of Stephen’s cock as he pressed two fingers into himself with a deep moan for his own touch, for Stephen watching him do it, for the hard cock in his mouth and the pure fucking perfection of it all.

A quiet kind of helpless sound fell from Stephen as he watched, hips hitching a little, making Guhar take him deep, one hand curled around Stephen’s hip while he fucked himself with the other, a little faster now, just enough to be safe and relatively comfortable.  It was electrifying to feel the weight of Stephen’s gaze on him, to show him how much Guhar wanted him, what he would do for that, and he sank into it for a while, enjoying the moment, the anticipation and the taste of Stephen’s skin.  Pulling away, he released Stephen’s cock from between his lips, gripping him with his free hand and stroking him instead, straightening as he slipped his fingers out of himself and reached over for the condom.

Guhar had to grin at the wide-eyed way Stephen watched him carefully tear open the condom packet with his teeth and the tips of his fingers, and he couldn’t resist a little eyebrow waggle when the wide slid flawlessly into narrow as Guhar put the condom on Stephen’s cock with quick, deft movements.  He was going to be Answering Questions about that later, he had no doubt.  But for right now, there was Stephen, all laid out on his bed, deliciously filthy with his hands bound and clothes shoved out of the way, hard and ready for him.

Ignoring Stephen’s little huff, Guhar crawled up over his body, low enough to feel the heat of Stephen’s skin and the electric thrill of proximity without touching.  Amazingly, Stephen returned his grin, and Guhar couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to (he really didn’t), taking his mouth in a quick, hard kiss.  Adjusting his knees again, Guhar straightened up, very deliberately holding Stephen’s gaze as he reached back again to wrap slick fingers around Stephen’s cock, stroking him a few times.  One suspended second of Stephen’s cock pressing against his entrance, watching Stephen watch him, and Guhar rocked back with a soft, ragged moan.

He’d done it just right, the slide of Stephen’s length into him, stinging but not really painful, letting Guhar feel every inch as he rocked, taking him a little bit at a time until he was grinding slowly against Stephen’s hips.  Guhar braced himself with fingertips pressed to Stephen’s belly, waiting a moment for his body to properly adjust, taking that moment to appreciate the quick, rough sound of Stephen’s breath, the brightness of his eyes and the heat of his skin.  Fucking beautiful was what it was.

Even so, there was only so much Guhar could take, and Stephen seemed to be ight there with him, legs shifting to rock up against Guhar’s body, a demanding little moan to go with, and Guhar grinned all over again.  Leaning forward, hands still pressed to Stephen’s skin, he pulled himself up, holding for a second before sliding back down on Stephen’s cock, settling into a quick rhythm that threatened to steal his breath and pulled a sharp little cry from Stephen.  Still he held the gaze, unwilling to give it up, keeping Stephen with it just as surely as the cuffs held him down, and fuck, the sound of his name on Stephen’s lips sent a shock of pure lust tripping through his body.

Guhar’s world narrowed to this, Stephen under him, the scent of desire and sweat and the sounds of want that poured into his ears to sharpen the pleasure of Stephen’s cock in him.  He’d wanted so much that he’d been afraid that having would suffer by it, but he realised now that he couldn’t have been more wrong.  This was perfection, the look of hunger in Stephen’s eyes as he watched Guhar fuck himself on him, the feel of skin and muscle, Stephen doing his level best to fuck Guhar even harder, deeper, the look of him as he struggled against his restraints and the sensation of fabric against the backs of Guhar’s thighs as he moved.  Before he was even really aware of it, his movements became quick and hard, breathless moans falling from him as he leaned back to brace a hand on Stephen’s thigh, shifting the movement of Stephen’s cock in him and tearing a little cry from him.   Guhar curled his free hand curling tightly around his own cock stroking himself fast, grip tight, pleasure coiling hot and fast in his body as he finally closed his eyes, letting his head fall back as he abandoned himself to it, so fucking good...

Stephen breathed quiet words under his moans, encouragements, endearments and soft curses that sounded just like them, legs tight as he writhed under Guhar’s body, fucking amazing.  Climax barrelled down on Guhar fast and hard; he leaned forward to press a hand to Stephen’s chest, hips rolling against Stephen’s, fucking himself in a deep, rough rhythm as he pried his eyes open, needing to see.  The look on Stephen’s face was something Guhar had been fantasizing about for weeks, open and surrendered to pleasure, flushed with it, and that was it, all he could take.  His fingernails bit at skin as he shuddered and choked out a cry, coming hard over his fingers and Stephen’s body.  

Still he moved, Stephen’s cock in him drawing out his pleasure until well after he’d released himself, slick hands on Stephen’s body as he moved with it, driving Stephen relentlessly until he got what he was after, a sharp grin of satisfaction on his lips for Stephen’s cry and the arching of his body as he followed Guhar into climax.  Guhar forced himself not to close his eyes again, wanting to see this, needing it in an oddly complete way.  

It was fucking gorgeous.

Slowly, they moved to a stop together and Guhar leaned forward to collapse on Stephen’s chest, liking the way his breath matched Guhar’s and the sound of his heart, quick and strong.  He only just managed to stop himself reaching up for Stephen’s hair, remembering just in time that his hands were covered in either lubricant or come, and just let them flop onto the bed beside them, instead.  Stephen allowed it for a few minutes while they both caught their breath, but only a few.

“Let me loose, damn it,” he murmured, and Guhar had to grin for the tone of his voice, which he was sure was supposed to sound deamnding and annoyed, but really just came out kind of adorable.  “...what?” Stephen pressed in that same tone, and Guhar pushed himself up, shaking his head and chuckling softly.

“Where are the keys?”  A long silent moment passed where Guhar watched dawning understanding and approximately fifty-three different reactions and levels of annoyance register in Stephen’s expression.

“In...my...pants...” Stephen said slowly.  Then, “ _You fucked me with my pants on._ ”

Guhar grinned.  Then, for good measure, he beamed.  “Yeah.”

“Don’t grin, you fucking idiot,” Stephen huffed, and Guhar just shrugged and made a little face at having to get off him in order to search for the keys.  He didn’t much care for that part.

“Why not?” he asked as he slipped his hand into the other pocket.  “It was hot.”

“Yes, but it’s my uniform.  You can’t just... _fuck_  all over my uniform.”

Guhar opted not to get into the issues with that form of argument, preferring to cuddle up against Stephen’s side under the pretext of reaching over to unlock the cuffs, instead. Of course, the form of the argument wasn’t the argument itself.  Guhar took that up happily.  “Just did and like I said: hot.”

Lowering his arms carefully and flexing his wrists, Stephen fixed him with what Guhar had come to think of as the Best Glare.  “Hot or not, you’re not defiling the uniform again.” Guhar just smirked and kissed Stephen’s cheek, because he had a Theory about that ‘defiling’.  It even got him something like a smile.

“I need to have a shower,” Guhar said.  “Want to come with?”  He sweetened this offer with a little nudge and an eyebrow waggle.  “I promise to take your pants off for it.”

“Well, I’d fucking hope so,” Stephen snapped, manfully ignoring Guhar’s eyebrow shenanigans.  Guhar was impressed.

Pleasantly boneless, utterly sated (for the moment, at least), Guhar put his chin down on Stephen’s chest.  “You should stay.  I’ll put your clothes in the laundry.”

“You’d better,” Stephen grumbled, “I’m not going to pay to clean clothes that _you_  came all over.”

Guhar considered this signal failure to instill guilt in him, and snickered.  “You liked it.”  He looked up at Stephen, and saw an expression he’d never seen on him before.  Soft and open, the corners of his mouth curled up a tiny bit, it lasted for about two seconds before Stephen huffed loudly.

“I’m not going to admit to that.”

Guhar made a mental note to have a few uniforms made just for playing with, because ‘Not going to admit’ and ‘didn’t like’ were two completely different things, after all.  Just for fun, he answered, “Anyway, if you weren’t so much fun, I wouldn’t have.”

Well, that earned him a glare (also lacking heat; Guhar was beginning to wonder if Stephen only had enough batteries for either pissiness or sex at any given time.  It was an interesting theory.) and a splutter, even.  “Get into the shower, monkey.”

Guhar raised his head and one eyebrow.  “ _Monkey?_ ”

Stephen Did Not Smirk, in that way he had, of Not Having expressions.  “Don’t climb me and I won’t call you one.”

“Okay, Steve,” Guhar snorted and rolled away fast.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after; breakfast with a view to a break.

Stephen drifted towards wakefulness, much drowsier than he usually felt on waking, the kind of slow wake that came from rest that he wasn’t really accustomed to getting. ...this was Not His Bed. It was softer, and the sheets felt different against his skin. And there was too much sheet against his skin. Was he not wearing pants? What?

Oh.

Right.

Guhar.

Godfucking _damnit_.  He hadn’t been prepared for this.

“‘Morning, Stephen!”

Right. Stephen was in his bed. “Mrrph,” he replied, in a gracious concession to the fact that one didn’t ignore greetings.

“You want some coffee?” The brat sounded obscenely cheerful. _Perky._  The fuck was that, in the morning.

Stephen wiped a bleary hand over his face, determined to maintain as much of his grump as possible in the face of Guhar’s insane cheeriness. He had a morning routine, damn it. “Nnn. Why are you so cheerful?”

Guhar grinned at him, a surprisingly leer-like grin that he’d never seen before last night. “Had a good night.”

“Yes. But it’s _morning,_ ” Stephen elucidated, since Irani seemed not to grasp this extremely pertinent fact. “Quit bouncing at me or I'll kick you out.”

All that got him was a snort. “It's my house. Next time, we'll fuck at your place, and you can kick me out. Deal?”

“Deal,” Stephen said and froze, realising he’d just agreed to several things he hadn’t really considered until saying it, such as a) the fact that there would be a next time, b) that that next time might conceivably occur at Stephen’s home, and that c) there would be fucking that next time. Rather than deal with that right now, he sat up, wiping at his eyes. “What time is it?”

Guhar leaned over to check the clock. “Uh...a little past ten-thirty.”

“...well, fuck,” Stephen replied, intelligently. He hadn’t slept nine hours in a night since he’d been a teenager. Hell, he hadn’t slept six since he turned seventeen. “Good thing I don’t have work.”

Guhar nodded agreement, pouring him a cup of coffee before Stephen could demand one, which left him feeling bizarrely cheated. “I’ve got your coffee, but you have to come over here to get it.”

Stephen huffed, fighting back the momentary urge to grin. “...so you like tempting death in the mornings.” Still, he got out of bed, grateful for the cool air in the conditioned room. His pants were missing - in the wash, if the monkey knew what was good for him - so he just grabbed the towel he’d slung over the chair the previous night, wrapping it around his waist, resolutely not noticing Guhar’s pout over it. Fucking pervert.

“I was just going over my notes from last night while I was waiting for breakfast,” Guhar said, beaming at him.

Apparently,  he’d chosen to ignore the threat. He looked ridiculously bouncy for someone Stephen knew had pulled a fifteen-hour work day and couldn’t have slept much, all wet hair and bright eyes, munching on a dosa. “How are you so...” Stephen made a gesture that hopefully encompassed ‘awake’, ‘energetic’ and ‘annoying’, since those were his primary grudges with Guhar on any given day.

Guhar shrugged, apparently comprehending well enough. “I wake up pretty easy, and I usually go upstairs for a swim and stuff, so that helps.”

Stephen considered that very carefully. “Fuck right off.”

The pissant just snickered around a mouthful of dosa. “Sorry, sir, I'll be quiet until after coffee.”

Stephen took his coffee with an annoyed huff, taking a soothing gulp. It was fucking good coffee. They sat there for a few minutes in companionable silence while Stephen attempted to resuscitate his brain and Guhar noshed loudly on his breakfast and read his notes. Finally, he ventured, “ ....you went _upstairs_  for a swim?”

Guhar nodded absently, still looking down at his notes. “Yeah, the pool's usually pretty empty in the mornings. Most people seem to like to wait until the afternoon, when it's hotter.”

A rooftop pool. The little fucknut had a rooftop pool. And Stephen had been buying him bhel puri lunches for six fucking weeks because he thought he needed feeding. It was so mortifying that it almost looped back around to hilarious. ...almost. “Right. ...how long have you been awake?”

Guhar shrugged. “I guess about four hours?”

Stephen gave him an unhappy look, displeased with the level of energy displayed. “Heh.”

“Yeah, I figured if I’d better get up in time to wash your uniform.”

An unwilling grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wise decision. ...so is that breakfast, then?”

Guhar shook his head happily. “Nah, that's not ready yet. These are a snack.”

“Three dosas are a snack?”

Guhar nodded, grabbing another dosa, which was small, but really, not _that_  small. “I usually wake up a lot earlier than the cook gets here, and I make pretty good dosas.” He grinned at Stephen, who was suddenly feeling a lot better about his assumptions based on Guhar’s appetite. “She gets tetchy if she can't make sure I'm getting a Proper Breakfast.”

Then the implication of Guhar’s words sank in, ridiculously late. Guhar had a cook. Who was probably already here, had probably already seen his shoes in the entrance and knew he was here. Unless the gurkha had already told her he was here. And fuck, he’d come in his cop car, so really, if they wanted to put the pieces together, anyone could figure out he’d spent the night. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._  “Your cook. Is she here already? Does she know I'm here?”

Guhar simply nodded, looking puzzled, as if there was something opaque about his reasoning or something. “She's here, but she doesn't ever come into my room unless I ask her to. She'll knock and leave a cart in the hall.”

Stephen subsided a little, wrestling the moment of panic back. Damn it, he wasn’t accustomed to having to account for others like this, certainly not since becoming a cop. No one came by his place except a maid, once a week, which made privacy simpler to achieve. On the other hand, he never brought anyone home either. Or went out and fucked people. Much less hooked up with a direct subordinate - a direct male subordinate - and then slept over at his place. The fuck was he thinking? ...Guhar. That’s what he’d been thinking. Or not-thinking. “Right. ...is she an all-dayer?”

“No, there’s no point.” Guhar had the audacity to look puzzled, as if he just didn’t understand why Stephen wouldn’t want to have potentially done the walk of shame with Surprise Cook Arrival. Then again, the fucker had a maid and still left lube and condoms on his nightstand. Maybe shame was just foreign to him. “I work all the time, and Auntie's pretty much never here. She'll be gone in an hour or so, once breakfast is done and all.”

“Right.” Well, that made things simpler. All he had to do was hunker for an hour and then he'd be clear to leave. Not that she wouldn't have gotten the gossip from the gurkha already... “What notes do you have?”  

Guhar frowned at the page. “Right...I'm thinking that everything we found out last about Ferreira-” there was a knock on the door, which sent Stephen’s heart into his throat and brought a great wide beaming smile to Guhar’s face. “Food!”

Ah, yes. His enduring love, and Stephen’s undoing. He got up immediately (though still not as fast as Guhar did), moving quietly and quickly to the balcony, at a pace that was distinctly and definitely not definable as a _scuttle_ , ears burning.

A wave of hot and humid air hit him the second he opened the balcony doors, salt-stinging and heavy, taking his breath for a second. The view was fucking spectacular from here, right on the shore; he could see the entire sweep of the bay, from the jetty to Cuffe Parade right across him, and he stepped over to the edge of the balcony, taking it in. It wasn’t often that he bothered seeking out the vantage points, much less engaging in actual sightseeing, but it was oddly pleasant here, under the shelter and relative privacy of a covered balcony, watching the cruise boats float on the water.

Guhar stepped out with him after a minute, wheeling a little cart with several closed dishes on it. “Hey, it’s pretty, huh?”

Stephen made an absent little noise, still looking out over the bay, moving aside to let him set out the food on the little table without looking. “It is. Right across the bay...”

Guhar nodded enthusiastically. “I like to have breakfast out here, most days.”

Stephen turned around as Guhar sat down and pulled a notepad from his pocket, setting it out on the table, beside the two bhajis, yogurt, the stack of rotis and spicy pickles. “Didn’t you _just_  eat a couple of dosas?”

Guhar slumped a little, giving him a hunted look. “You know, it's not like you haven't ever seen me eat, before. I eat a lot. Okay? Can we move on, now?”

Put that way, it did seem unfairly harsh. It wasn’t like he could really help his appetite, anyway. Stephen grunted acknowledgement, rather than pursue it further, serving himself a couple of the delicate, fluffy rotis and a generous amount of bhaji to go with it. “You didn't happen to catch a glance at the fire from out here, did you?”

Guhar nodded, serving himself as he spoke. “Yeah, I could see it pretty clearly, from here. It's not that far off, and across the water...”

The words sparked something odd in him, some beginning of a grasping at a thought. “Across the water,” he echoed, a bite of food halfway to his mouth, frowning.

Guhar nodded, examining his notes while munching. “So, like I was saying, the transfer of that guy to Mercy kind of has to have something to do with the disappearance of that Nafiza girl, and his turning up dead so soon after. I'll have to check the official autopsy reports from work, but there’s definitely something rotten in that timing.”  More munching.  “I mean, that Ferreira guy’s trafficking kids,” Guhar continued, “and he has a heart attack a couple of months after Nafiza disappears, and _right_  before her little brother runs away? Yeah, right.”

Stephen nodded absently, taking that in with half his attention, since the back of his brain was starting to tick on something else entirely. “So you think the girl killed him? Or was it Angelface CreepyBoy?”

Guhar snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, he's pretty, but his eyes...” Guhar made a small unhappy sound, and Stephen nodded agreement, tracking the angle of the fire visually, from the balcony’s vantage point. Someone standing up here wouldn’t have been able to spot one person moving through the rocks, not at night, but maybe someone closer...

Stephen huffed. “No shit.” No, he needed to get closer... he stood up, crossing over to the edge of the balcony, looking out at the water. The jutting end of the Marine Drive jogging track near the NCPA was at one end, the Backbay warehouse site just visible from it, and...hm.

“Hey.”

“Hn?”

Guhar huffed.

“What?”

“I said, I’ll just call the station.”

There was a moment of silence as Stephen continued to track the line of sight. It had been a half-moon, but the fire could have backlit someone... and the fucknut did like to sit out there when he drank; he’d said as much the first time Stephen busted him...

“You’ve got something, haven’t you?” Guhar said finally.

“Maybe.” Stephen turned to face him. “Just thinking. I never asked Gaish if he saw any _one_. Maybe he saw the killer leaving the warehouse. If he didn't have the money to have a boat waiting, the only way to lose the trail would be to... climb right down, right to the water's edge, walk below the high tide mark...fuck. Maybe Gaish did see something.”

Guhar’s eyes widened. “Shit, hang on, I'm going to call the station. Here. I’ll be right back!” He tossed his notebook into Stephen’s lap, disappearing into his room before Stephen could point out that he’d left his glasses in his car and couldn’t read shit without them, and thus had no idea what Guhar was even babbling about. Call the station? What for? He’d been saying something, before Stephen got absorbed in his line of thought. The fuck was it, again? Ah, right. That orphanage director’s death. Suspiciously young, and it was entirely possible this was the start of the killer’s trail. If only he could read the damn note. Not that he couldn’t read it, if he got his glasses, but the thought of doing the walk of shame in front of Unidentified Cook Lady seemed slightly less preferable than running his dick through a cheese grater. So he sat there, in a way that he was under no circumstances going to identify as sulking, until Guhar returned, flopping back down in his seat and reaching immediately for food. “Okay, Sawarkar is going to check into that priest's autopsy, see if they really did cover up something wonky.  And since this guy was shady as hell...”

Stephen nodded, grateful for the catch-up. “The church wouldn't want to hush it up if he'd been murdered outright. If it looked enough like suicide, though, they’d have wanted to keep that quiet.”

Guhar nodded eagerly. “And if he didn't die like they said, that makes that creepy little brother - Aasif - suspect number one, right?  Height fits the warehouse profile, too.”

“He had the opportunity, and it's not hard to find the means. Hanging, poisoning...” Stephen snorted. “Hell, he could have walked the guy off the top of the building for all we know. Which begs the question: how the fuck did he _know_  to do it?”

“Worlds like that? They've got their ways. You can find out anything you want, if you know who to ask, and how. I mean, you ask Gaish, right?  Probably ‘cause he came up on the shady side, and now he works it, so he knows that stuff.” Guhar shrugged a little, expression briefly unreadable, and Stephen wondered where the hell the kid had come up, before being adopted. “If Darr is involved, we won't know, 'til we get him.  If then.”

Stephen shook his head. “Oh, he's involved. I don't have absolute proof yet, but he's involved.” He was trying not to pace, and doing a terrible job of it. ”I need to talk to Gaish. You ready to go?”

‘Yeah, just let me grab my dabba and we can go,” Guhar said casually, as if eating three dosas, several rotis and a significant amount of bhaji wasn’t enough to tide the guy over until mid-afternoon. “....Where are we going?”

Stephen frowned. “I did say I needed to talk to Gaish. If you can tuck your stomach out of the way long enough to ride there.”

Guhar glared at him. “Good. You can get on his case for a change.”

Stephen blinked at him, puzzled. “Hm?”

Guhar huffed. “Every time I've ever seen that guy, he's taking home enough food for three people, and you only ever said anything that one time.”

“Well, that's because he...”

Guhar frowned at him as Stephen trailed off. “What?”

Stephen waved him to silence, brain working frantically. “He... had someone at his place. He's had them there all this time. And he wasn't leering, so it's not one of his Temporary Flames, and the strays he rescues don't stay this long. And he saw the fire. He was right there on the jogging track that night. He’s always at the outcropping, staring at the sea. Every damn time...” Maybe he’d done more than see the fire. Maybe more than see the killer. Maybe the fucking moron was sheltering him, whether he knew or not.

He could see the moment at which the penny dropped for Guhar. His eyes widened almost comically, and a squeaky little sound of surprise/realisation fell from him before he swore very fervently, grabbed Stephen by the neck and hauled him in for a brief and comprehensively filthy kiss, right there on the balcony where a few thousand people could potentially see them, prompting Stephen to make a nearly identical squeaky sound of surprise.

“I’ll go get your clothes.”  He bolted into the house, leaving Stephen as frozen as Guhar had been, though for a substantially longer time. He’d just been kissed. In public. By another man. And the worst of it was that he hadn’t even minded that much. It was all very distracting. This was exactly the kind of thing that he’d always been concerned about. Being distracted.

“Yo, Stephen! Come on already!” Guhar yelled from inside, startling him all over again.

See? _Distraction._  “Damn it, don’t just scream my name, monkey...”

Guhar snorted, grinning at him as Stephen re-entered the room, tossing the clean uniform on the bed. “Didn’t seem to mind last night...”

The little fucking fuck. “I'm going to shove your head so far up your ass, I swear to fuck...”

And it didn’t make a dent in that grin at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen and Guhar pay a visit to Gaish, and all of the fucks decide to cluster.

Gaish occupied a tiny apartment - “apartment” was more like it really - on the second floor of a much-lived-in chawl in Nagpada. Stephen would have characterised it as living there, but Gaish seemed not to, for the most part. As far as he could tell, the man cycled between work and bars and trawling the red-light district for strays, lurkers and otherwise distressed kids to rescue and pass on through his bizarre and well-developed social networks. Stephen had seen him do it personally at least once, setting up a pregnant girl with an escape route from her abusive husband, with an “understanding, respectable lady” at the other end who’d employ her. He had to admit, however grudgingly and internally, that the chawl was a perfect place for it; shady enough that shady people felt comfortable, and crowded enough that people could simply disappear in it.

And, of course, discreet enough that Gaish could easily have been sheltering a fucking rampage killer there for nine weeks without anyone having a tiny little clue about it.

“Just let me do the talking,” Stephen muttered as they climbed the stairs, intensely conscious of the gaze of about four other (tenants?) people on them as they approached Gaish’s apartment, three sets of eyes peering out from behind doors or windows and one woman who was right there in front of his house, glaring like she’d beat them - or, given that his companion was Guhar, probably just Stephen - to death. He ignored them all loftily (though Guhar certainly didn’t, watching them avidly), rapping on the door. “Damn it, open up, you pervert! I don't have time to waste, here!”

Gaish’s voice sounded through the door, irritable and indistinct. “Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, don't bust your stick.” The door unlocked after a moment, one blue eye glaring at him through the opening. “The fuck do you want?”

Stephen glared at him. “What stick?”

Gaish snorted, opening the door more fully. He looked...pretty awful, actually, dark circles under his eyes, and oddly worn down in a way that he never did, except when incredibly drunk.  Which he clearly wasn’t. “Never mind. What do you want?”

Stephen upped the glare a little. “Need to talk to you. About a case. You want to have that conversation where your Little Clan of Crazy can hear?”

Gaish huffed, but he turned and headed back inside. “Hurry it the fuck up, then.” He grabbed a bottle of beer off the table. “My beer and I got plans.”

Stephen peered around the apartment. It was clean, even tidy, which was either a new and shocking development in Gaish’s personality - like the emergence of a whole new personality - or Gaish was in fact still harbouring the boy. “Getting an early start on your boozing today?” He sniffed ostentatiously. “Who cleaned?”

Gaish took an impressively long swig of beer. “My little buddy likes things neat. Don't get used to it. Stephen, _what do you want?_?”

Ah, fuck. Confirmation, of a sort, that the boy was still there for the moment at least. Stephen narrowed his eyes, pushing back his reaction. “...your little buddy, actually. You found him by the water, didn't you?”

Gaish’s face went satisfyingly, tellingly blank. Fuck, of course Gaish knew he’d had the killer all along. Of course he had. Nine weeks later, the fucker probably knew it all and was sheltering him anyway. Did he even know how much trouble he was in right now? “The fuck do you want with him?”

Stephen nodded. “Right. By the water, then. The night of the fire?”

Gaish crossed his arms, glaring at him fiercely. “Answer the question, asshole.”

“He's involved, I want to talk to him about it-” Stephen huffed “and your utter lack of surprise at where I'm going with it means you already know.”

Gaish slumped back, perching on the edge of the table. “Don’t matter, now. He's gone.”

...gone. _Gone?_  Who the fuck did that? Stephen grabbed a fistful of the fucking moron’s wifebeater, glaring at him. “You knew he did it, and you let him go?”

Gaish’s widened for a second, but then he grabbed his uniform right back, his expression vicious, now. “ _I didn't fucking know._  Now you get your fucking hands off me before I pound you.”

They glared at each other for what felt like a long moment before Guhar stepped in, a hand on each of their chests to push them back, Stephen more, because he had room to move. “Hey! This isn't going to help anyone, now back off.”

Stephen let go reluctantly, though Gaish held him for a second longer, that weirdly horrible hurt-animal look in his eyes, and he’d never seen him look like that when sober. It left him with a strange taste in his mouth. He’d never had any qualms about sneering at a man when he was down, but kicking was a whole other thing entirely. “ You didn’t know?  How the _fuck_ did you not know?”

“ I thought he was a victim,” Gaish almost snarled, utterly open, like he really believed it, and....fuck. It was true. He really had thought it. And sure, the evidence was on his side, even if the truth wasn’t, but...

...well, if anyone had such an intensity of good intentions, it was going to be Gaish. Stephen dropped into the chair, rubbing his forehead. “All right. What _do_  you know?

Gaish huffed, grabbing his beer again. “ I took my bike down to the point the night of the fire. I was just sitting there watching, and I saw him down there on the rocks. Figured it was some drunk passed out too close to the water or something. I couldn't just leave him there.” Something strange flickered in his expression for a moment, gone before Stephen could quite identify it. “Turned out he had a pretty good hole in his gut, so I picked him up and took him to a guy I know to get patched up. I didn't even think he was going to live, for fuck's sake. He had about three drops of blood left, and I had to poke something back into his belly. So I brought him here and waited for him to die, but he didn't.”

Fuck, fuck, he really didn’t know a damn thing. “...okay,” Stephen said grudgingly, shelving his towering fury at Gaish’s kinetic stupidity in favour of getting the story from him. “What did you get from him? Did he tell you why he was there? Anything?”

Gaish shook his head. “I tried, but once he figured out I was a cop, he clammed right up.” Another swig of his claim to boozehoundery. “That's how trauma works though, right? And if he'd had shit bad, chances were pretty good that cops aren't the kind of people he could trust. So I figured I'd keep him around while he recovered and see if I could tease it out of him. By then I was starting to hear shit from the fire, and I started to figure he'd been there, all right, but he'd escaped. I mean...you should have seen the kid. He's a fucking _twig._  Angel face, too. You know how that shit runs.”

That shit, apparently, ran consistently, at least as descriptions went. Stephen huffed, but Guhar piped up before he did, sounding ridiculously excited. “He tell you his name, at least?”

Gaish gave Guhar an uncertain look. “Yeah, but it's not much. Aasif. His name's Aasif.”

Stephen exhaled roughly, because well, that was some fucking confirmation, right there. Some gift from God “Matthew” had turned out to be.  “Well, your angel-faced twig knifed fourteen large men with guns. And murdered a priest. Or, at least, I'm pretty sure he did. His sister disappeared eight months ago.” Which led to the question of where the hell Aasif had disappeared, now, unless Gaish was stashing him with one of his many shady buddies.

“Yeah, I got to figuring that when I got up this morning. Be fucked if I can figure out how, though.”

“This morning?” Stephen asked sharply. “What about this morning?”

“Got up and he was gone. Left me breakfast and a note.” There was something strange in Gaish’s voice, so odd that it took Stephen a moment to identify it: defeat. He’d never heard him sound defeated.

Then the rest of it sank in, and he frowned. “This morning? How long has he been gone?”

Gaish shrugged, taking a swig of beer. “Dunno, exactly. Maybe a couple of hours? Food was still warm, so.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes. This morning. After nine weeks, he left this morning. The timing was too fucking pat by half. “What did the note say?”

Gaish sighed. “Lots of shit you don't need to know about, that he was sorry to have caused me so much trouble but there was one last thing he had to do.” The worn edge was back in his voice.

_One last thing he had to do._

The wobbly iron chair toppled over with a clang as Stephen jerked to his feet. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He knows about the other ship.”

Gaish’s eyes flew wide. “What? What other ship?”

Guhar jumped up from his chair. “Shit. The Bandra Macchimaar co-op!” He was already bolting towards the door when Stephen stopped him.

“Damn it. No. We don't know that's where he went, and if it isn't, we'll fuck up the raid beyond recovery.” Of course, if that was where he went - and Stephen had nothing but his own conviction and ample evidence that Darr was a meticulous and fucking comprehensive bastard - that that was where he went, the raid was already about to be fucked beyond recovery by virtue of another fucking torched wareh-

A blur of red caught his attention, and he started, just in time to see Gaish bolting for the door, grabbing his keys. “Don’t fucking-” but he was gone.  Fucker always was fast. “ _Damn it!_ ” Guhar started after him, and Stephen shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll just follow. He's got a fast bike, and if the kid isn't there, he's not going to draw as much attention as we are.”

And if he was, if Gaish did stop him, the raid might be blown, but at least the boy would be caught. Killer. Whatever. He was vaguely aware of Guhar pausing and threatening one of the neighbours into watching Gaish’s apartment, but his mind was already racing, trying to figure out how much time they had. If Darr had left after nine - and if he was remotely savvy, he’d have waited until then for the worst of the morning rush to pass - he’d probably have taken a train, and gotten bogged down in traffic the second he disembarked at Bandra. Which meant, all told, that at eleven-thirty, he was probably getting to the warehouse right fucking now. Stephen swore, picking up his pace. “Fucking move already, monkey!”

~~~~~~~

The warehouse was right on the water, a relatively new building; the reports had said he could spot it from the Sea Link, and sure enough, he did. Not that he could keep all his attention on it, his reckless speed, a chorus of angry honks following his jeep as he wove through the commuters. Luckily, they were going against the flow of traffic, but even so, the Sea Link was hardly deserted on their side. Guhar was clinging to the door of the car, looking a little panicked, but still in the game, presumably.

“Shit, are we going to get there in time? That kid couldn't have gotten there before we turned up at Gaish's place, right?”

Stephen shook his head. “Did the math already. Under two hours from eleven in the morning, which means he left Gaish's just before the peak of rush hour. He'd have spent an hour getting to Bandra, easy, and then another crawling through traffic, which means he's realistically got about twenty minutes on us, and fifteen on Gaish. Unless he took a cab, in which case we're fucked.”

“Why'd he go after him though? It doesn't make any sense!”

It took him a moment to realise that Guhar was talking about Gaish, not Aasif, whose motivations Stephen understood entirely too fucking well. The first answer that rose to Stephen’s mind was _because he’s a fucking sap with abandonment issues a mile high_ , but he abandoned that, shrugging a little. “Because at least one of them could get out alive and unscathed that way.”

Guhar looked at him, all wide-eyed and confused. Fuck, he looked so young sometimes. “Huh? Gaish didn’t know, though.”

Stephen snorted. “And you think anyone who doesn't know what a prize idiot he is is going to believe him for a second?”

Guhar glared at him, as if Stephen was personally responsible for everyone’s decisions on anyone’s story in the history of fucking ever. “I guess.”

Stephen sighed, feeling unaccountably guilty. He hadn’t had anyone make him feel like an asshole for stating the truth in years (not that many, many people hadn’t said it, but he hadn’t bothered to acknowledge it by having emotions about their judgments). It was simultaneously unexpected, unwelcome and comforting. And fucking annoying. “Look, here's an incomplete list of the things he did: fail to report a gunshot victim, fail to report having found a person who was shot in proximity to a _major_  crime scene, and even if he didn't know it, he harboured arguably the worst rampage killer in the history of the bloody nation, no matter how justified one might call the boy. And if Darr’s going to take out the other warehouse, which, since it's the most inconvenient thing that could currently happen, he's probably trying to do, Gaish will have failed to prevent a second mass murder. No one’s going to be defending him after that, unless you really think the media’s current squealing about “Mumbai’s Batman” is going to last for six whole seconds after they find out Darr’s a Muslim, not a good little bedotted high-caste boy.”

Guhar sighed, slumping a little. “Yeah, fine.” He was all hunched up, now, clearly angry. Stephen hadn’t seen him get angry before, but it was an oddly familiar expression nonetheless. “Let’s go get him, then.”

Stephen nodded a little, turning off the road after the toll point, trying to loop back off the highway as quickly as possible. “That's his best chance. If we catch Aasif, Shah might be able to get away with being fired and fined. … _if_  the media continues its whole Caped Crusader circus once it finds out who the killer is.”

Guhar started swearing under his breath. Since Stephen agreed with him, he just nodded, looking out over the bay to spot the little white yacht that the police used for coastal surveillance. Sure enough, there it was, bobbing a couple of hundred metres away, and he had to hope they weren’t watching very intently, because the longer he and Guhar had to try to fix this nascent clusterfuck the better - though honestly, at this point, he wasn’t sure what to fix. There wasn’t any sign of Gaish’s bike, though. Either he hadn’t arrived yet - unlikely, since he rode that motorcycle like he wanted to save himself the cremation costs - or he’d stashed it out of sight, which was the better option in this situation anyway.

The warehouse was ordinary-looking, a large building with a small pier attached to the side facing away from Stephen and Guhar, a simple sign with "Bandra Macchimaar Co-Op Warehouse" on it. It looked almost exactly like the one Darr had set on fire before. If he had to guess, he’d say the interior was the same too, down to the fake freezers. There was no guard that he could see, which was suspicious in and of itself. Shit. He’d come here after all. How in the fuck did he find out about this warehouse? Some information he’d extracted from the previous site, probably, but that was more conjecture.

Guhar was out of the car before it had even stopped, calling out as he ran to the side doors closest to them. “This place stinks like gasoline...”

Stephen sniffed deeply as he followed him. Sure, he could smell a little gasoline, but it wasn’t that much. Guhar’s nose was in a whole other league than his own, though. He cursed as Guhar opened a door and just...ran in, like the fucking idiot he was, breaking about six different laws in the process. “Don’t just bust in there, you id-” he stopped, inhaling sharply, because he could definitely smell it now the door was open, gasoline reeking everywhere - “ _Fuck._ ”

“Shit, we’ve got a body,” Guhar called from inside. Stephen stepped into the warehouse, officially making a bad decision, and sure enough, there was a body right inside the door, lying on his back, glassy eyes, throat sliced and cradled in his own blood. Stephen only took a second to look at the first body - fuck, it really was going to be the first body, he could feel it, sense it in the still, reeking air of the warehouse - before he followed Guhar, who was swearing under his breath. “Take the left, Guhar. Find Gaish; he’s our priority right now. And get him the fuck out.” Fuck only knew how much time they had before Darr sent the place up.

Guhar nodded, moving to obey. One step, though, and he went completely still,  freezing like a hunted animal for a second before he grabbed Stephen’s hand. “No, we’ve got to get out of here.”

His grip was surprisingly strong, yanking Stephen with him as he moved quickly towards the door. “What? What are you-”

“There’s smoke!” Guhar yelled. “The fire’s already started, now _come on!_ ”

Stephen stopped resisting immediately, moving with him towards the door, trying to take in as much detail as he could as Guhar accelerated to a run. He still didn’t smell smoke, but he trusted Guhar, and Guhar’s nose, a realisation he was surprised to have reached, but there it was, not that he was ever going to tell him as-

-there was heat at his back, swelling fast, a roaring sound in his ear, sickeningly strong odour of gasoline and he had just enough time to connect the concepts of _doo_ r and _wind_  in his mind before Guhar yanked at him viciously, threw him past Guhar and well out of the warehouse, searing pain in his arm and back at the force of his throw, fuck, how was he so strong anyway, and then heat, light, sound, the hard impact of the ground and a lance of pain in his shoulder and the burst of fire on his vision and the barrage of debris striking his body, ears ringing so badly it dizzied him.

It took him a long moment of squinting at Guhar (and stubbornly denying that he was panicking while squinting at Guhar) before he could tell that he was moving, and then he started crawling away from the fire  - what the fuck had they had in there, to go up like that? - but then Guhar was staggering over to him, hauling him up, draping him over his shoulder, the presumptuous little insect, and he was going to inform him that he was one, except opening his mouth made him cough what felt like a chunk of lung right out of it. Every step Guhar took sent a burst of pain through his shoulder, and though he knew, intellectually, that that wasn’t what Guhar was doing, it still felt like the little bastard was transporting him on a pogo stick. Guhar didn’t pause until they were well away from the warehouse, past the car - which was probably going to be fucking costing a mint in repairs, thank you, Aasif, you inconsiderate shit - all the way to the next building, a little storage shed closer to the docks, where he dumped him against its wall and sat down next to him

The sound in his head was intrusive, complete, silencing everything around him, except his breathing, which sounded obscenely loud. His shoulder was throbbing in the awful way he knew meant dislocation - great, a fucking hospital visit and medical leave, two of his favouritest things in the whole world. And over it all was the rock-solid certainty that if Gaish had been stupid enough to die in this stupid warehouse and its stupid fire, Stephen was going to convert to Hinduism just so he could riddle the sorry piece of shit with bullets in his next incarnation.

He tapped Guhar’s shoulder impatiently, looking him over. He seemed to be unhurt - fairly impressive, since he’d been just outside the warehouse when it went up - but that didn’t mean he was all right. Adrenalin did strange things sometimes. When Guhar looked at him, he mouthed, exaggeratedly, _You okay? Did you see anyone?_

Guhar frowned, concentrating fiercely on his mouth. After a moment, he nodded, mouthing back _I’m fine._  Shook his head after that. _No one._

Fuck. Unless Gaish and Darr had gotten out through another exit, they were probably dead. _My shoulder’s hurt._  He pointed for clarity. Guhar made a little face, wincing at the sight of Stephen’s shoulder,  which was dangling at a strange angle. _Yes, it’s your fault_ , Stephen added, but without any real heat. Guhar could just have run ahead, could have pulled Stephen after, but he hadn’t, and he hadn’t had time to consider it, had to have acted on pure instinct.

He wasn’t sure what to do with everything that implied. Or even anything that implied. So he didn’t do anything with it, tangling the fingers of his uninjured hand in Guhar’s hair instead, a surprisingly comforting and strangely familiar feeling. Guhar wibbled a little, but relaxed, and all right, clearly that worked. He dragged in a deep breath, coughing a little with it, but it hurt less this time. Right. The idiots on the boat would probably have called emergency services already, which meant he didn’t have to go try to get his cellphone out of the car and hope the heat hadn’t fried it. Excellent. He’d just stay here, then. This was a nice shed to lean against, as sheds to lean against went. Fucking Gaish and his fucking goodwill... and fuck himself, too, for being too late yet afuckinggain. This whole damn case had been a clusterfuck of too little, too late and too fucking impossible. That it wasn’t really even his case just made it worse. Being unable to make the tiniest bit of difference in something he’d clawed and traded favours and outright broken the law to try and figure out in time was even more of a fucking insult than being handed something he couldn’t ever have done. And the fact was that if Gaish had gone up with the warehouse, that was directly and entirely Stephen’s fault. And if he hadn’t, that was because Darr hadn’t, in which case, what the fuck was he going to do with that?  

After a moment, the fact that Guhar’s gaze was almost poking at him became impossible to ignore. He opened one eye and was greeted by a pair of enormous, worried brown eyes. Damn it. _What?_

Guhar blinked at him. _What are we going to tell them?_  he mouthed.

Stephen frowned at him. _What the hell are you getting at?_

_What about Gaish?_

Stephen frowned, tucking away his own uncertainty on the matter. _He’s probably fine. I think._  Guhar only glared harder at that, all painful sincerity and anger, and damn it, why was it Stephen’s job to disillusion him?

Fuck, he was tired. Tired of this bullshit, tired of this case, tired of missing kids, tired of disappearing orphans he could do fuck-all for, tired of psychotic orphans who _did_  do something about the disappearing orphans, tired of being six minutes too late on every goddamn thing to do with this case, tired of it all. _I’m going to tell them what I saw. Exactly what I saw._  And in perfect fucking truth, he hadn’t seen much at all.

Guhar was still glaring. _Which is?_

Stephen frowned. _The fuck do you care?_

Guhar crossed his arms over his chest, giving him a very determined look. _He’s our friend._

_And the other guy killed about thirty people,_  Stephen pointed out. The fact that Stephen personally felt they’d all been a waste of skin and Darr had been quite right to do it... well, he wasn’t sure how to feel about that yet.

_Wasn’t wrong,_ Guhar mouthed back fiercely, and damn it, since when had the man learned to read Stephen’s mind, anyway?

_Mass fucking murder,_  Stephen replied, because it was a point worth making, to himself as much as to Guhar.

Guhar leaned in, scowling at him from uncomfortably close. _You couldn’t stop them_.

Stephen flinched, the words striking uncomfortably deeply at him. No, he hadn’t stopped them. Not Darr, not these traffickers, not Ferreira, not whoever the fuck had killed his father. He hadn’t stopped a single one of them, not when he’d played by the rules, and not when he’d broken them.

Fuck it.

Fine.

Stephen took a deep breath. _...Gaish got a tip. He called me_  and fuck did the “phone” gesture feel silly _said he was going in, to follow when we got there._ He gestured to the two of them. _We didn't see him. Or anyone else alive. We didn't know about the sting or about Backbay.  Clear?_

Guhar’s expression grew contrite even before Stephen started talking, and he patted Stephen’s leg apologetically, because he was a giant sap, clearly. _Sorry_ , he said, and petted his leg some more.

Stephen tugged his hair to let him know it was okay, and let him pet him, shrugging with his uninjured shoulder. He was going to very deliberately and carefully not think about the fact that he’d just precipitated an obstruction of justice. But damn it, the kid hadn’t done anything Stephen hadn’t wanted to, nothing that he wouldn’t have done for his father, for the last thing he had in the world.

And besides....

He’d become strangely accustomed to living up to Guhar’s facial expressions.


	9. Epilogue: An incomplete Recounting of Shit That Happened Afterward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened next.

Two hours after the emergency crews reached the warehouse, Stephen and Guhar were released from the hospital after a preliminary debriefing. Stephen complained bitterly, in a painkiller-addled mutter, about the bumpiness of the road, the idiocy of other drivers and pedestrians, Guhar’s driving style, the fucking Mumbai traffic, the heat, the music on the radio and, once he realised their destination, the fact that Guhar was apparently under the impression that he could just _take_  Stephen places all the time, the presumptuous little shit. Guhar nodded affably, smiled very affably, nodded some more when required, and took Stephen home anyway.

Three hours after Aasif Darr’s second slaughter, a scruffily-dressed man with exceedingly shifty eyes turned up to investigate the lack of phone access to his comprehensively deceased buddies. He was promptly nabbed by the police, and used to lure the traffickers into a trap, setting off a miniature bowling alley of heads in several unexpected places. Tarware’s investigation of Suresh Shankar became substantially easier with the capture of a half-dozen mooks who were all too willing to turn snitch, and eventually resulted in the carting off to jail of various street thugs, orphanage directors, fundraising managers, philanthropists (and one very displeased cook).

A week after his shoulder had been dislocated, Stephen went back to work, and - he claimed - to the privacy of his own home rather than have Guhar hovering over him and pouncing him alternately, which he declared very loudly was starting to get on his last fucking nerve. The fact that he still spent nearly every night at Guhar’s did not deter him from sticking tenaciously to this version of events.

Two weeks after the warehouse explosion, all investigations into the incident complete, Gaish Shah, among several others, was declared missing and presumed dead. His bike, which a witness had noted him riding to the scene, was discovered in the bike stand at the Vasai railway station a couple of days later, presumably stolen. Gaish was assumed, based on Stephen’s testimony, to have discovered evidence of the trafficking independently, and was given a posthumous promotion. No one collected his personal effects, though his badge was eventually claimed by a certain police naik as a memento. The names of Aasif and Nafiza Darr were not mentioned in any reports related to either the Backbay or Bandra warehouse incidents.

Eighteen months after his willing participation in the escape of the Backbay and Bandra killer, Stephen left the police force in favour of setting up the Irani-Gonsalves Detective Agency, with the financial backing - and indulgent amusement - of famously eccentric stock market genius Kamal Irani. Working with just the one partner sadly reduced the number of targets for his morning ire, but Guhar had discovered ways to defuse that anyway, the sneaky little fuck.

Twenty-six months after the last time Stephen had seen Gaish Shah alive, a postcard arrived in Guhar’s mail. The image was of a stereotypical scene in Kerala, with a little one-bedroom houseboat on it, the kind that ferried tourists around the creeks and backwaters. _White Dragon Tours_  was on the bottom in the same neat, precise handwriting that had penned the address.

The text of the card was just two words, written in a rather different, sloping script:

 

**_Hey, Anthony._ **

 

 


End file.
